


O Captain, My Captor

by jackmischief



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Captivity, D/s elements, Erik who is emotionally crippled, Gore, Intimidation, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Abuse, Mild Kink, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Past Abuse, let's all manhandle Charles, mild violence, stubborn Charles is stubborn, what even is accurate history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackmischief/pseuds/jackmischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To pay off the debt they owe Captain Lehnsherr for protecting their shores, the Xaviers have sold off their son to the notorious pirate. Charles never wanted to be owned, but he'll just have to get used to belonging to the Captain and sailing the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I apologize beforehand for the slightly-AU history. Honestly, I was shooting for around 1750, but my research skills have gone severely downhill. I also apologize for the title, with a nod to Walt Whitman and my friends. This will get both darker and more lighthearted as we go along.

It isn’t that Charles is unfamiliar with pain. It isn’t that he doesn’t know what it’s like to be struck by a hard hand, a fist, a strap, or a cane. It’s that he never thought he’d be owned. He never thought he’d end up being traded to level a debt to the very men that threatened his home. The pain of having his mother so numb to her son being sold off, the pain of leaving his little sister behind to stay with the man who’d just sold him as if he were some object without a soul…

It was this pain that brought tears to his eyes.

He didn’t even get to tell Raven goodbye.

 _I love you,_ he thinks for her, as the debt collector knocks him over the head with the butt of his gun for struggling. Raven’s smiling face is the last thing his conscious mind lingers on before he blacks out, the darkness warm and welcoming.

-

“…What is this?” the thin captain demanded of the boy left before him, limp and unconscious, fragile and pale on the hearth. “Surely you jest, Azazel,” he scoffed, scowling at the child as he crouched beside him, shifting his form to lay him flat on his back, getting a proper look at him: Young—very young—with messy dark hair, an unusual nose, and lips too red for a man. Altogether, he had a striking appearance. Exactly in his interests, were he to be honest. But at present, he was entirely skeptical. “This is the Xavier boy?”

“One and the same,” the Russian assured him stiffly, frowning in distaste at the small body at his feet.

“I was promised someone who could work,” the captain said curtly, though he didn’t seem terribly upset.

“He is unconscious.”

“I can see that.”

“…I meant, you have not seen him struggle,” Azazel rephrased, smirking a little, admittedly impressed. “The boy has fight in him, if nothing else. I’m certain you’ll find some use for him.”

Grunting, the captain stood, pushing back his dark ginger hair, slightly irritated. “When I asked for a slave, I did not think this would prove problematic.”

“And what has proven to be the problem?”

The captain gave his lieutenant a scathing look, to which the Russian only shrugged. “He may be pretty, but you should have seen the way he looked at me.”

“Like a frightened, spoiled brat?” the captain offered, rolling his eyes and barely resisting the urge to nudge the boy with his foot.

“Like a furious kitten,” Azazel corrected, nodding at him. His superior quirked a brow, insofar not amused. “He fought me, Erik—valiantly, for all his size and strength. Which it is not notable, I assure you.” He paused, smirking faintly and looking down at the boy they’d received as payment for their crew’s continued presence. Bending, he scooped the boy up and hauled him over his shoulder none too gently. “Do you want me to place him in your quarters?”

The captain was busy staring at the fireplace, having deliberately distracted himself only moments before. Remaining stoic, he waved him off airily, jaw clenched. The lieutenant rolled his eyes and turned to leave, just at the door when the thin ginger called out, “And for God’s sake, bind him, will you? I’m not in the mood.”

“He was bound. Right up until I hit him,” the Russian replied smoothly. “Which was not two minutes after I bound him,” he added before quickly taking his leave, leaving his superior to whip his head around and narrow his gaze thoughtfully.

Fight in him indeed.

-

“Charles,” comes his mother’s tired voice from the other room. “Come here, darling.”

Charles takes a moment to reluctantly pull from his book, his notes. He’s been studying, waiting for the day he actually gets to go to university, to become the lawyer he was expected to become. His mother keeps promising him, and until then he only remains a financial burden on the house, despite the work he tries to do. Though of course, his mother and stepfather are adamant about an Xavier never getting his hands dirty, and he is more often than not scolded for his attempts to help the one servant they have, a man he’d known his entire life, to do the simplest things. His stepfather especially is happy to beat him should he attempt to set foot in the kitchen.

 _Were it not for Cain marrying a wealthy, young German lady ten years ago,_ Charles thought as he set down his quill, _I might never have known a rod_. But he isn’t as bitter as even he expected himself to be. He isn’t one to wish pain on others, even if they’ve frequently done him wrong.

“Yes, mother?” he asked as he slipped into the parlor. He paused, confused at the sight of the stranger in formal dress standing in the middle of the room, professional and forbearing. Military, if the rifle and badges meant anything. Brow knit, he looked suspiciously between his mother, stepfather, and the stranger. Kurt, as usual, looked smug and somewhat dull, but his mother looked a tad more distraught than usual. Raven was nowhere to be seen. “Is everything all right?” Charles asked carefully.

“Everything’s fine, Charles,” his mother began as the stranger faced him, scrutinizing him disbelievingly.

“This boy?” the stranger asked, accent heavy, gesturing to Charles off-handedly and looking to the couple sitting on the sofa. Mrs. Xavier nodded, albeit reluctantly. Charles was about to remark on being there in the room when the stranger turned his attention to him. “How old are you? You cannot yet be sixteen.”

“I am eighteen, I’ll have you know,” Charles protested indignantly, frowning. “What’s going on?” he asked a little more firmly, starting to be truly concerned. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the stranger’s rapid approach, and backed immediately into the nearest wall, eyes wide as he frowned, panicked and confused. But much to Charles’ relief, the man paused before him, looking him up and down as if trying to come to a decision, hands clasped behind his back, as they had been when Charles had entered the room.

“Charles, darling,” Sharon Xavier began hesitantly. “We—we’ve made a bargain.”

“What sort of bargain?” Charles asked immediately, never taking his eyes off the man who was somehow getting closer without ever truly moving.

“You’re off, you little twat,” Kurt—his shameless stepfather—snapped, almost triumphant.

Charles blinked, managing to tear his gaze off the foreign stranger for a long enough moment to be startled again. “I’m what?”

“You are coming with me,” the stranger clarified. “You have been traded for the continuing safety of your community,” he went on, and Charles finally placed his accent as Russian. Charles had the good sense to look horrified. “Noble,” the man commented, flashing a humorless smile.

“…This is not happening,” Charles said quietly, slipping along the wall toward the doorway, heart racing in his chest. “These things don’t happen anymore. They don’t. This isn’t 1620,” he protested as his pulse hammered in his ears. “You have not— _sold me off_ to pay a bloody _debt_ ,” he went on, more to himself than his so-called parents, considering he was fully aware that his protests would be useless. It took half a moment to calculate just how much stronger this stranger was than he, and on top of that, clearly faster, if the way he easily caught Charles in his dash for the doorway was any indication. But he didn’t let himself be taken so easily.

“Get _off_ of me,” he shouted, writhing as the foreigner wrapped his arms around him and easily pinned him to his chest. “Get _off!_ ” He was cut short as the stranger slammed him into a wall, knocking the wind out of him and starting a ringing in his ears. For a moment, he was stunned, vision dimmed, and he groaned. When his senses rushed back to him, he was being hauled backward, wrists bound at the small of his back, his shoulder in a vice grip as he was directed toward the door by the strange man who’d cornered him.

“ _No_ ,” he ground out, squirming and twisting, panic and anger giving him the rush he needed to throw himself backward against the Russian, knocking his shoulder harshly into his captor. The man stumbled, but was clearly well prepared when it came to struggling young men, because he grabbed Charles’ upper arm easily just before he managed to slip away, dragging him back. Charles found himself very close to the foreigner’s face, and the man did not look pleased.

“You do not seem to understand,” the man said lowly, grip tight enough to cut off the young man’s circulation; Charles winced, distantly wondering if it would bruise. “You do not have the freedom of ‘no’ any longer. You are a slave now, boy.”

A wave of nausea rocked his gut, and Charles imagined the punishment for being sick on the man’s shoes was much worse than if he spoke in defiance. So he forced himself to take a deep breath and do exactly that. “I am a _person_ ,” he argued, “One who can think for himself and is not going to simply go along with becoming a _possession!_ ” He hissed, gritting his teeth as the Russian took a fistful of his hair and snapped his head back. “Let go of me!” Charles shouted, still thrashing in his hold, a small spark of triumph in him as he felt his bonds loosening. He twisted his hands about, fingers tugging and scrabbling at the tight, thin ropes that were already chaffing his skin.

“Listen, _malchik_ ,” the stranger lows. “I do not have the patience or the time for you to _fuck_ around,” he says with plain annoyance, clearly expecting Charles to flinch at the swear word.

“I don’t really _fucking_ care,” Charles retorted, scowling, though he was a little smug for the way he seemed to surprise the man by one-upping him. He’d nearly gotten loose, too, his hands beginning to slip free. “I’m not a horse. I’m not a prize. I will not be sold to some gutless, violent _bastard_ ,” he snapped, pulling his hands free and shoving hard at the stranger’s chest, cursing himself for the tears that dared spring to his eyes.

He didn’t waste time watching the man stumble in genuine surprise, instead running out the door and heading for the woods. Or, at least, that was his plan, had he managed to make it more than ten feet out the door before something solid hit the back of his head.

-

Charles awoke with a start, a panic racing through his heart as some sort of fever dream involving Raven in chains faded from memory. He sat upright quickly, giving himself a horrific ache in his head, vision swirling as he groaned. A bruise was forming at the back of his skull; he could already feel it throbbing. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, blinking dazedly and attempting to touch the tender spot only to find his wrists were bound. Again. “Dammit,” he cursed lowly, his situation returning to him in a rush. He finally realized he was in unfamiliar territory, the room dark and cool. Despite that he was on something relatively comfortable, Charles felt like the room was going to crush him in some dark, merciless way.

Trying to remember how to breathe, Charles pressed his back against the back of what he guessed was a settee of some sort, and tried to let his vision adjust. Well, he wasn’t in a dungeon. Yet. Which surely was a good sign. He realized he was hyperventilating, and attempted to even his breaths so as not to send himself into unconsciousness—and therefore vulnerability—again.

Dutifully, he did _not_ shriek when a door suddenly burst open and the room was partly lit by lantern light. He did hold his hands up to block the too-bright light, however, a grimace on his lips, and the lantern bearer grunted, entering further into the room. Heart thrumming, Charles swallowed hard and tried to think.

“Wh-where am I?” he eventually said, internally cursing himself for stammering.

“Quiet,” came the simple answer. Not angry, but disinterested. The lamp was set on a bedside table, and Charles realized he was in some larger version of the bedrooms he was more familiar with. The man who’d answered him was facing away, rifling through a trunk.

Not to be deterred, and quite certain he deserved at least some explanation, Charles pressed on. “Who are you?” he asked, shifting slightly in his seat, blinking as he quickly grew accustomed to the admittedly dim light.

“Quiet,” the man repeated, a little more conviction in it this time. The man, whose silhouette was tall and thin, seemed to be gathering sheets or clothing from the trunk, pointedly ignoring Charles other than to quiet him.

Charles scowled, unimpressed with this dismissal. “Would you at _least_ tell me what’s going to hap—oh,” he began irately, only to stop himself when the man turned abruptly and stalked over to him at a frightening speed, much like the man who’d taken him from his home. Snapping his jaw shut, he leaned away as the man bent more to his level. Charles couldn’t see his face well in the faint light, but by the set of his jaw and the tone of his voice, he got the message.

“Be. _Quiet_. Xavier,” the man hissed, and Charles stared back blankly, stunned by the amount of ferocity fixed in the command. A distant part of him noted that this was the first person to call him “Xavier” since he’d been a schoolboy. The man remained hovering over him, and Charles carefully nodded, assuming he was waiting to be acknowledged somehow. Apparently he was correct, because the man backed away then, returning to the trunk silently.

Charles clamped his mouth shut to avoid letting his nerves and curiosity get the better of him, waiting patiently as his eyes adjusted to the lighting. He wasn’t sure who this man was, unable to glean much from the minimal interaction, but he had a sinking feeling he was going to find out soon enough, and he wasn’t going to like it. As he fidgeted, twisting his wrists experimentally in his lap—tied tightly with a thin but strong rope, not so different from what the Russian had used—he tried to calculate his chances of getting to the door without being spotted, and exactly how he’d go from there when he didn’t know where he was, how many others were outside that door, where he would go even if there was the slightest chance of actual escape… Charles almost sighed, but the man turned around rather suddenly and convinced him to hold his breath instead.

The man knew his name, which wasn’t terribly surprising, but unnerving all the same, as it meant he had talked to the same man who’d taken him from his home. The thought sent him back to the way his mother looked at him, or rather, the way she refused to. He felt sick, nauseated at the memory of being given away like a sack of grain. A part of him wanted to have been able to see Raven just one last time, and another part was grateful she didn’t have to see him go. Charles hated himself then, for not fighting harder, for not seeing this coming when the hushed voices and dark tones the few previous nights should have at least aroused suspicion in him.

Charles was so caught up in his bitterness that he hadn’t noticed the new stranger’s approach. It was only when he barked in his face that Charles’ head snapped up from staring at his bound hands.

“Xavier,” he thin man repeated, quieter this time. “Do you understand your position?” he asked, tone even but condescending, as if Charles were a misbehaving schoolboy in need of a scolding.

Charles amazingly managed not to sound as panicked as the moment had made him. “I believe I’m a person in a stranger’s room with his hands bound,” he said curtly, frowning in distaste. “And I believe you’re an accomplice to the man that kidnapped me,” he added sharply, pointedly leaning away, only to be dragged back by an iron grip on his jaw. The young man sucked in through his teeth, snapping his mouth shut again as he stared defiantly at the man before him.

“Wrong,” he said, sneering slightly. “You were not kidnapped,” corrected his captor.

Charles waited for his jaw to be freed, but as the man did not move, he took his chances speaking through his teeth. “Wasn’t I?” he prompted crossly, allowing himself to hold the man’s wrist in his hands, attempting to pry him off. A treacherous gasp escaped him as his wrist was captured in yet another vice grip, long, thin fingers pulling his hands forward. “Let—let _go_ of me.”

“You were not kidnapped,” the man repeated lowly, “because you belong to me now. You were… recovered.”

Charles gaped in disbelief, brow furrowed with his mute horror. “I—,” he stammered after what felt like hours of being stared at by hard eyes. “I’m not—I’m not a damned _prize horse_ stolen from your stables,” he said stiffly, wriggling and wrenching his hands and face away, pushing himself farther away on the small sofa, away from the man with the strong hands. “I was not _recovered_ , I was taken from my home in broad daylight!”

The thin man did not follow after him and try to wrestle him into submission, as Charles half-expected him to. Instead, he straightened up, shaking his head slightly. “You were given as payment for the protection of your little town, Xavier. Your mother and father—”

“ _Step_ father—”

“—have not paid what they owe me in two years. You are the difference.”

Charles scoffed, anger rising in him at the increase of insult. “I am not an object, let alone a bloody _payment!_ ” he snapped, offended. He found it much harder to sound as furious as he was when the man began to easily close the gap between them, putting a hand on the back of the sofa and the other on the high arm, cornering Charles as he stutteringly went on. “I, I am a person, and deserve to be treated as such. You—you won’t even tell me where I am, or, or who you are, or—”

“Captain Erik Lehnsherr, of _die Freiheit_. I’m the man that keeps your shores safe, Xavier. I’m the man keeping the Spanish and the last dregs of piracy from invading your town, boy,” the man lowed, and some distracted part of Charles noted a hint of an accent, which he finally placed due to the ship’s name.

“Are you German?” he asked, sounding entirely innocent and slightly intrigued. “What’s a German doing protecting British sho—?”

A sharp slap stunned him into silence, and he froze, head turned slightly to the side with the force of the blow, completely unexpected when he realized that really, perhaps, it should not have been so surprising.

“Do you remember when I told you to be quiet?” Erik Lehnsherr hissed, looming over him. “Be quiet when I’m talking to you.”

Charles waited, to make sure he wasn’t interrupting, cautiously looking up when he said in a quiet, stiff voice, “I thought you’d finished.” He _did_ have manners, even if this brute didn’t. His face stung, and he slowly brought his fingers to his face; for once, they were cool and not warm, and Charles chalked it up to the fact that his skin was no doubt reddened upon his cheek.

The captain backed up just slightly. “We’re leaving in two days,” he said gruffly, moving back over to the trunk, setting the piles of what looked like linen or clothing on the large bed.

Frowning, Charles waited again, unwilling to invite another hit because the man paused in between thoughts. When it seemed he was truly finished, he dared to ask, “Leaving to go where?”

Captain Lehnsehrr paused in moving things to the bed, looking over at Charles with what seemed to be a flat gaze; Charles really couldn’t see him very well in such dim light as this. He could see him well enough when he approached again, and the young man could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he neared. He had pressed himself back against the corner of the sofa again, jaw set and expression defiant despite the unease settling in his throat. He did well in keeping himself from shuddering when the thin man leaned over him for the second time, very much in what he considered his personal space.

“Questions, Xavier? Do you honestly think I’m going to answer them?” Lehnsherr lowed, expression lacking mercy or amusement of any sort. “I don’t owe you anything, boy. Despite your protests, I own you now. I’ll tell you whatever I deem fit for you to know.”

Charles took a careful breath, pointedly avoiding the man’s eyes and resisting the urge to bring his hands up to block his face. “…Please?” he asked in a small voice, ruing the very moment he let himself give in to plea.

The captain was silent for what might have been a very long time, but he did not move an inch. After what felt like ages, Charles glanced to him to see suspicion on the man’s face, his eyes flicking between Charles’, as if searching for something. He dared not ask what it was, but gripped his breeches anxiously, glad the motion was silent and did not draw attention.

“La Have,” came the answer at last, after a few brief moments of the two staring at each other.

“France?”

“France,” Lehnsherr clarified, pushing away again and moving back to the clothes on the bed. “Have you ever been on a ship, boy?”

“No,” Charles replied uncertainly, stomach flipping at the very idea. He enjoyed swimming on at the shallow end of the shore when he had the chance and the water did not freeze his extremities to ice. But deeper waters… the very possibility of capsizing or shipwreck terrified him. He did not want to die at sea. The captain made an odd low sound, and Charles realized it was supposed to be something of a chuckle. He scowled, about to demand what was so funny when the taller man informed him.

“You look absolutely terrified,” Captain Lehnsherr said with unashamed amusement.

“I don’t trust seafaring to be anything but… dangerous,” Charles retorted defensively.

“Take off your clothes.”

“And honestly, even if you ‘own’ me I’d rather not—wait. I’m sorry, w-what?” Charles stammered, completely thrown off by the man’s casual tone once the words caught up with him. “I beg pardon?”

“Take off your clothes,” he repeated simply, coming over to him and staring at him with an unreadable yet terribly unnerving expression.

“I—I don’t think—,” Charles stuttered nervously, flushing brightly, the horrible realization dawning on him that he was indeed still quite powerless in the face of this man, and that he should have seen this coming a mile away when even Kurt had said he was too pretty to be a man, that rude, idiotic bastard—

Charles flinched when his wrists were grabbed, and he instinctively turned his face away, heart pounding dangerously against his ribs as he attempted to pull his hands back; he nearly fell over when they snapped back toward him rather suddenly, the ropes cut and the seafarer pocketing his knife, turning away and back to the bed again. “Clothes,” the man reminded him seamlessly.

Charles stared in shock, unconsciously rubbing his sore, chafed wrists. An unfamiliar sort of fear gripped his throat, and he swallowed hard, looking at his hands and forcing himself to stop them trembling. “I—please,” he said in a weak voice.

“Take _off_. Your _clothes_ ,” Lehnsherr growled— _growled_ , heaven’s sakes, like some sort of animal, or perhaps some sort of demon—and Charles silently nodded, attempting to unbutton his frock and vest with unsteady hands as panic and terror threaded through his limbs and thoughts.

Charles flinched, keeping his eyes down and gritting his teeth, fumbling with his buttons clumsily, making his panic worse. What if he thought he was dallying? What if the captain came over and tore his clothes off and made it twice as brutal as he was sure it was going to be? His entire body shook, and it wasn’t until he felt the strange edge of the thin man’s stare that he dared look up.

“…Why are you shaking?” the man demanded, frowning at him with something like disbelieving distaste.

Charles gaped, shocked that he would have to ask such a thing when he’d just told him to undress, like it was no small thing, like he wasn’t about to take him unwillingly.

“Do you want fresh clothes or not, Xavier?” Lehnsherr asked, notably irate. “You can wear the same thing all week if it suits you. I don’t have to give you clothing.”

If it were possible, Charles’ flush deepened. “…Oh,” he breathed sheepishly.

“You thought I was going to rape you,” the captain stated flatly, unimpressed. Charles didn’t answer, his fingers steadily finding his buttons quite a bit easier now.  “I could do it, you know.”

Charles wished he could melt into himself, shuddering almost imperceptibly, choosing not to respond to that, either.

“You’re smaller than me. Soft. I’d be surprised if there was much strength in you at all.”

And suddenly, he was in front of him again, Charles nearly leaping out of his skin at his sudden closeness. He’d just shrugged out of his frock and was currently on his vest, and his fingers froze as the captain’s hands came over his. “You have the face of a beautiful virgin, Xavier. Have you ever known another’s touch?” he asked lowly, and to Charles’ surprise, there was no threat in his voice, just dark curiosity.

“…I don’t have to answer that,” he muttered, trying to move his fingers again, stubborn and nervous, though he let himself believe this man wouldn’t attempt to take him suddenly.

“On the contrary, Charles Xavier, you must do as I say. I asked you a question. Answer.”

Hesitating, Charles let his gaze snap up to Lehnsherr’s, and he scowled. “No,” he said firmly, simply. “Now if you’ll let me take my clothes off, as you _ordered?_ ” he added stiffly, still pink-cheeked.

The man smiled a little, a strange, not entirely unpleasant upturn of his lips, and even if Charles still couldn’t see him all that well, he got the gist of the amusement in it. The captain backed away again, retreating to the bed and making a show of setting aside a set of clothes, at the foot of the bed, glancing to him meaningfully. Charles didn’t look him in the eye again as he began to undress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Malchick" is Russian for "boy." I'll be sure to put all translations down here. German as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles attempts escape, Erik proves he's a manipulative dick, and the ground rules get laid out.  
> EDIT: German derp corrected. Sincerest apologies.

Infuriatingly, the captain did not leave him to undress in peace. He continued moving clothes and linens about between trunks and the bed, and Charles reluctantly edged behind the settee for some semblance of privacy as he finished changing. It had been frightening enough getting closer to the man willingly, even though it was simply to retrieve his clothes, but he was grudgingly grateful the man didn’t seem entirely bent on making him uncomfortable; Lehnsherr didn’t deliberately watch him or tell him not to hide, but Charles assumed it was because he was busy, not merciful. _Besides,_ he reasoned as he tucked his shirt between his legs and began to pull up his breeches, _if he were truly merciful, I wouldn’t bloody well be here._

Rubbing his wrists absentmindedly, he came back around the sofa and sat again, remaining silent to keep from drawing attention to himself. The captain either ignored him or didn’t notice, and Charles looked to the door, still a crack open. After a few moments debating the risks of an escape attempt, he slowly shifted closer to the foot of the sofa, toward the door.

On one hand, he could get away and sneak back into his house—if they were still in town. He would take the money he’d been keeping whenever his mother had given him some to spend (“Go out and _entertain_ yourself,” she’d insist), leave a note for Raven, and hopefully find his way to the city. It was preferable to the alternative: being dragged out to sea as a captain’s slave and never knowing freedom again. On the other hand, with the possibility of failure, came the likely issuing of punishment from the man with the strong hands. Charles did not want to think about what that punishment would entail, but more than anything, he did _not_ want to be a captive, someone’s _property_ , and wanted even less to be such out at sea.

Risking a beating—or perhaps worse—hardly seemed unreasonable in the face of slavery.

Charles never took his eyes off of the lean captain, careful not to make a sound as he reached the end of the settee and rose to his feet. Suddenly, he found himself grateful his shoes had been taken. _When had that happened?_ he wondered uneasily, _When I was unconscious?_ It was much easier to be stealthy when one only donned socks upon their feet, but he didn’t like the idea of having to run through the streets without shoes. Perhaps he could take to the shore. The sand would be a bit less painful on the soft soles of his feet, after all. He distantly wished he’d been more adamant about doing work, at least to have gained more strength than he had now if not to toughen his skin. Then again, how could he have foreseen this?

Carefully, he nudged the door further open, grateful it didn’t creak or groan. In fact, neither had the floorboards, now that he thought about it, which was strangely convenient for him. But he thought nothing more of it, daring to look away from Lehnsherr to check the hall. It was dark, but silent. No guards posted outside the door, at least. So his luck continued. Quickly, he darted down the corridor to what had seemed like a staircase from the doorway. Holding his breath, he quelled the relief inside of his chest when he discovered it was indeed that; he wasn’t out of danger just yet. In the back of his mind, his relief was crushed under the weight of something telling him this was too easy.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Charles was glad to find a lantern near another doorway, casting a soft glow to the room it sat just inside of. Glancing around for any sign of guards, he carefully took the handle of the lantern and searched for an exit. It seemed the only one was back by the staircase, and he stepped lightly near the wall, grasping the handle carefully, the cool iron allowing for a wave of triumph to wash over him as he pried the door open with only the tiniest creak. But, no, he thought, pausing before slowly opening it further, that wasn’t from the door, it came from—

Charles yelped as the door slammed just in front of his face, a hand at eye-level pushing it out of his grasp. He nearly dropped the lantern in turning around, immediately crowded against the wood, the handle digging at the small of his back.

“Funny. I’ve been told you were aspiring to become a lawyer,” Captain Lehnsherr lowed, looming over him, expression unimpressed and certainly not amused. “And yet you were stupid enough to actually try and escape.”

“I—I’m not,” he attempted to protest, pressing his lips together and staring defiantly up at the—oh. Well, now he could see him much more clearly, and he was startled by just how handsome he was, all sharp, masculine angles with thin lips and unforgiving eyes. A small part of him wondered what color they were. “Not stupid,” he muttered uncomfortably, realizing he’d lapsed into a brief, awkward silence.

The taller man chuckled lowly, easily taking the lantern from Charles’ hand and setting it on the small table underneath the window near the door, eyes not once leaving Charles’. “You’ve yet to make any other impression.”

The young man scowled, and despite pressing himself back, he said, “I’m not afraid of you, you know.”

Lehnsherr gave him a moment to let the falsity of the sentence hang between them, expression shifting to something like disbelieving amusement. “And yet you tremble, as you did when you thought I was going to take you.”

“You _have_ taken me,” Charles hissed, heart racing treacherously in his chest. “You took me from my home, you damned— _pirate_ ,” he pointed out bitterly.

“Where was this fire when you thought I wanted to bed you?”

“Why are you—?” Charles began indignantly, flushing. “Why are you so fixated on that?”

“Why were you so convinced it was the case?”

They stared at each other, Lehnsherr once again looking appropriately unimpressed and Charles frowning in distaste, still without a coherent response. Soon enough, Charles found the ability to move again, and swiftly ducked under the captain’s arm, backing away down the hall, an action that made the taller male raise an eyebrow.

“Must you keep doing that?” Charles asked in a tight voice, moving slowly as if he’d stumbled across a sleeping lion and needed to retreat without waking him. Aforementioned lion just pushed off of the door and stepped toward him in much longer strides, albeit just as slowly. Charles swallowed hard.

“Doing what?” Lehnsherr demanded.

“Crowding me?” It was no wonder Charles thought he was going to rape him, the way he got so close and reeked of aggressiveness. He winced as he bumped into the stair post, hating himself for letting himself be cornered again. He quickly made to run up the stairs, but the captain’s hand found his upper arm first, his long fingers getting a firm grip easily, stopping him abruptly and causing him to stumble back. The wind was knocked out of him as he was tossed carelessly against the stairwell wall, and he instinctively shut his eyes and turned his face away as Lehnsherr deliberately stepped close again, jaw tight. “I—,” Charles attempted to say, but the seafarer cut him off with another slap to the face.

“I will do whatever I please with you, Xavier, and if you try to run away again, you’ll get much more than a simple strike,” the captain hissed. “Do you understand?” Charles didn’t move, afraid a nod would be seen as some kind of disobedience, but he couldn’t find his voice either, fear choking his breath. A wince escaped him as Lehnsherr gripped his arm tighter. “ _Verstanden?_ ” the captain repeated in his native tongue.

“Yes,” Charles muttered through clenched teeth, wishing he could hold his face for the sting.

“Get back upstairs, boy,” the captain said a bit less darkly, sounding more tired than angry now as he was pushed up the steps. “If you give me a reason to bind you again, it would not be difficult,” he warned.

Charles had not enjoyed the restriction of his movement at all, and clenched his fists as he stiffly went back up the stairs. “That, that really won’t be necessary,” he insisted, but was too busy yelping at a sharp swat to his bottom to go on.

“ _Halts Maul_ ,” Lehnsherr growled, clearly annoyed. Charles didn’t have to speak German to understand, and clamped his mouth shut, resisting the urge to cover his hind as he gritted his teeth again, cheeks crimson. “ _Schneller!_ ” the man snapped impatiently, and Charles didn’t need to be told twice, darting up the stairs like a frightened rabbit, glad for the excuse to get ahead.

-

“Possessions?” Lehnsherr echoed as if he’d misheard, giving Charles a flat look and dropping another set of clothing into the trunk he’d pulled out from under the bed.

“Yes,” Charles said stiffly, standing awkwardly by the arm of the sofa he’d been sitting on minutes ago. “My belongings.”

The captain straightened, and promptly shut the lid of the trunk before him, making the young man flinch. “Xavier, you continue to misunderstand your place,” he said coolly, setting the trunk easily onto his shoulder as he moved it across the room. Charles watched his movements warily, scowling. “You no longer have any belongings. You _are_ a belonging.”

Charles felt heat rushing up his neck, and he gritted his teeth viciously enough to give himself the beginnings of a headache. “You—,” he started hotly, fury and something akin to nausea coiling in his gut.

“I what?” the captain snapped, conveniently standing before the door as he leveled Charles with a look that read, _Continue. I challenge you to finish what you were saying and see where it gets you_.

“I refuse to be considered property,” Charles countered after a brief moment’s hesitation, setting his jaw insolently and raising his chin to prove quite possibly only to himself that he wasn’t afraid of the thin man. His display of bravado was shut down when the pirate’s gaze darkened and he approached at a speed Charles had not been expecting. The brunette sucked in sharply through his teeth, stumbling back and shutting his eyes, expecting another harsh slap, and was relieved to find Lehnsherr only gripped the lapels of his frock. Charles wouldn’t admit it, but he had expected clothes that were much less expensive than what he had been given to wear, even if they were a step down from his usual wardrobe.

“Let me make this clear to you again, Xavier,” the captain lowed, inches from his face. “You are mine now. You are no longer the son of a wealthy lawyer, and you are not going to become one yourself. You are no longer in the lap of luxury, but you will instead be earning your keep. You are a slave, Charles Xavier, and you will do as I say.” Charles was most definitely not trembling for the strength of the authority in the captain’s dangerous pitch. “The things you used to possess are gone. You own nothing now, except what I chose to give you. Is that clear?”

Charles kept his eyes shut the entire time, and remained silent, worried about what would happen if he answered a rhetorical question. He couldn’t even bring himself to nod. But he could feel the man’s grip on his clothes tighten impatiently, and he took a careful breath to answer stiffly, “Yes.”

“If I tell you to do something, you do it. If I tell you say something, you say it. If I ask you something, you had better answer me.”

Charles nodded, finding it difficult to swallow as he wondered when it was that he’d brought up his hands to the captain’s chest, unconsciously trying to push him away.

“You are to call me ‘sir’ or ‘captain.’ I will call you whatever I damned well please.”

“…Yes, sir.”

Lehnsherr’s grip relaxed slightly, and he seemed to cool down. Charles hadn’t realized he’d been lifted slightly off of his feet until the captain set him down again. He habitually straightened his waistcoat and fixed his shirts, avoiding the taller man’s eye and fighting back a furious blush. How dare this man turn him into nothing? How dare he speak to another person as if they were some disobedient dog? How _dare_ he manhandle him? But of course, he couldn’t voice any of his indignation, lest the captain’s wrath be unleashed upon him in a fiery rain of strong hands and hard eyes.

Turning back to the trunks by the bed again, the thin pirate seemed to dismiss him entirely, as if he’d only been distracted from his activities by a bothersome fly he didn’t care enough to properly swat. Charles didn’t even know what to do with himself. If he was supposed to be a slave, why was he not being told to pack for this man? Had he never owned someone before? He barely refrained from snorting, thinking it was terribly unlikely, what with the way the man so easily treated him as if he was less than human.

“Make yourself useful,” the captain said tightly, annoyance lacing his tone.

“What would you have me do?” Charles asked with just the right amount of caution, he thought.

“Come here,” the man said shortly, making no move to look at him or gesture, simply continuing his task of sorting linens and clothes. Charles decided it truly did seem like servants’ work, but Lehnsherr seemed like he was used to doing things for himself regardless. Maybe he hadn’t had any previous slaves after all.

Grudgingly, Charles made his way over, wishing the captain would leave the vicinity the closer he got, or at least move away, instead of closer. It was as if he had some kind of magnetic pull, sucking the man closer to himself with every step he took, the captain seeming to edge toward the foot of the bed as Charles moved. The young man did his best not to feel sick as Lehnsherr looked at him again.

“Can you fold clothing, boy?” he asked shortly, sounding almost bored.

“Yes,” Charles answered. He used to do laundry with the servant girls when he was small, when his mother was too busy imbibing wine to notice he was spending time with the lower class. He saw no harm in knowing a few household chores. The captain nodded to a small pile of clothes at the end of the bed, and offered nothing more. _Well, it could be worse,_ he told himself inwardly as he set about folding what seemed to be clothing closer to his size. The ones he was already wearing were the slightest bit big for him, but he didn’t mind terribly, considering he’d thought he’d be reduced to practically nothing out of the man’s spite. _This is hardly tortuous work_. He was getting off lightly after all of the captain’s bluster about his position.

“Your first possessions,” the man grunted once Charles was finished, a neat pile set just to his side, and they both looked to it. Meager, but Charles supposed it was better than nothing, considering it was apparently all he had to his name now. “For now, you may also have this,” the pirate went on, setting a small piece of luggage before the young man. “Consider yourself lucky. Most slaves would not receive even this, let alone clothes to wear.”

Charles bit his tongue to keep from biting out a snide remark about what luck meant, but the effort it took distracted him from what the man said next, and he missed it entirely, faltering as he set the clothes in the luggage box. For a moment, he froze in mute terror. He had the distinct feeling asking the captain to repeat himself was not going to lead to anything considerably good, but the possibility of punishment for not responding or obeying seemed much more consequential. Charles flinched when the man met his horrified gaze, and he took a steadying breath as the man’s eyebrow rose expectantly.

“I’m sorry, what?” Charles asked in a rush, attempting to keep the panic from his voice.

Luckily for him, Lehnsherr gave him a disbelieving, tired look, rather than trying to devour his soul. “I said, your shoes are unsuitable. You’ll be receiving new ones in the morning.”

“Will I have nothing to remind me of home?” Charles asked without thinking, a sorrow he hadn’t been prepared for sweeping into his lungs.

Lehnsherr stared blankly at him for what might have been minutes, and Charles too late realized he’d once again spoken out of turn. He tensed, frozen to the spot as he watched the captain nervously, waiting for him to round the corner of the bed and hit him again. To his immense surprise, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bit of ribbon, blue like the midnight sky—

Charles instinctively patted down his pockets, horror written plainly on his face as he realized he no longer wore his own clothes. “That’s—,” he stammered helplessly, nearly choking on his voice as that sorrow gripped him again, fueled by a rage in his belly. “You stole that from me!”

“Pirate,” Lehnsherr reminded him, quirking a brow. “Do you want it back?”

It was Raven’s. Or, it had been, before she’d given it to Charles on her sixth birthday. It had come on a hatbox from their father, a glorious and elaborate ladies’ hat inside. Raven had worn the ribbon on her wrist the entire day, and given it to her big brother when he tucked her in that night. _“This is for you,”_ she’d said in a whisper, as if it were a secret. _“So you’re never alone.”_

 _“Thank you, Raven,”_ he’d whispered in turn, smiling sweetly and kissing her forehead as he put out the light on his way to his own room, clutching the silken length to his chest.

“Yes,” Charles answered in a slightly raspy voice, pulled out of the memory harshly by the horrible feeling of loss. He hated that it had taken this long for him to notice, that he hadn’t thought about it when he was taking his original clothes off before.

“It’s that important to you?”

“Please,” he nearly whispered, watching the ribbon with a pained look on his face. “Please give it back.” He was not above begging when it came to his sister.

The captain stared, brow slightly furrowed and eyes blatantly intrigued at the young man’s reaction. Looking to the ribbon, Lehnsherr seemed to debate something before pocketing it again, making Charles’ chest physically ache at its disappearance. He looked to the pirate with devastatingly blue eyes, and the taller man stared mercilessly. “In the morning. Consider it incentive for you to keep from another runaway attempt,” he said curtly, and Charles thought his heart would break all over again.

Biting his lip, the brunette locked his gaze on the small luggage box he’d been given, and tried very hard not to shout. “You’ve taken everything from me, and you’ll still keep the ribbon?” he asked in a small voice, more despondent than angry, despite the anger still bubbling inside of him for his situation.

Again, it was too late he’d seen the error of his words, and Lehnsherr was on him in seconds, earning a startled yelp as he was pushed into the bedpost by the pirate captain, a hand at his throat. Charles hadn’t expected this development, as Lehnsherr had shown more favor toward grabbing his chin or simply pressing into him before, and the young man closed his eyes and held his wrist, attempting to pry it away. It was difficult enough to breathe when he’d treacherously been on the brink of tears, but the thin man wasn’t helping.

“What part of _‘I own you’_ don’t you understand, Charles?” Lehnsherr growled through his teeth, close, too close to his face again. The young man winced, but Lehnsherr’s hold did not give. “I will do as I please, and if you question me again, you will have the marks to show for it,” he warned darkly, squeezing his neck a moment for emphasis, Charles’ nails digging at his wrist.

Charles collapsed to the floor, choking and gasping as the pirate suddenly released him, and it was as if he’d never come over, back exactly where he had been before, ignoring the boy as he trembled, trying to even his heartbeat as well as his breathing before he shakily got to his feet again, face flushed and eyes downcast. They were dampened, partly due to his sadness and partly due to being strangled, but he resented his body for betraying him by finally showing this weakness.

The captain hardly spoke another word to him that night, instead locking him in the room adjacent to sleep, and reminding him he wouldn’t have the same privacy on the ship, if any at all. Charles said nothing, mute the rest of the evening. He sat on the edge of the small bed and contemplated his hands, distantly wondering why Lehnsherr had called him simply ‘Charles’ instead of ‘Xavier’ as he usually had, when he’d attempted to throttle him.

By the fading light of the candle he’d been left, Charles took off the majority of his clothes, setting them on a small table near the door, weary and drained for the day’s events. Just as he was about to snuff the candle out, a flash of blue caught his eye, by the door.

On his feet in an instant, Charles’ eyes widened as he fell to his knees, shuffling through his clothes and pulling out the ribbon from one of his vest’s front pockets. Quivering, he held the silken memory in his hands and gaped. When had the pirate returned it to him? It had to have been—no. That… What a ridiculous pretense for returning it. Unless Charles wasn’t suppose to notice yet. Either way, he had it again, and he pressed it to his cheek and swallowed the urge to weep again, carefully moving back onto the bed and pinching out the candle flame, the ribbon tangled in his fingers as he fell into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Verstanden?” — Understand? (we’ll be seeing this a lot)
> 
> “Halts Maul.” — Shut up. (a particularly rude variation)
> 
> “Schneller!” — Faster!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik wakes Charles up and surprises him with some “good” news. Charles gets some boots and promptly flees, though it’s not what Erik thinks.  
> EDIT: German derp corrected. I'm so sorry, you guys. I'm terribly embarrassed.

Erik rolled onto his back as sunlight breached the curtains, rubbing his face with a moment of tiredness before he forced himself to full alert. Old habits died hard, after all, and Erik was accustomed to quick awakenings, having lived the dangerous life he still continued to live for many years. Setting his feet upon the floor, he stood, grabbing his clothes immediately and dressing swiftly, habit forcing him to be prepared in less than two minutes. He was essentially set to go, and quickly made his way downstairs to be met by Azazel and Janos, just as he’d expected.

“Gentlemen,” he said curtly. “Trunks are upstairs. I’ll take care of… our new recruit,” he told them, possibly smirking slightly at his own phrasing, earning a quirked brow from Azazel and a classically impassive look from the Hispanic man.

“Odd. I thought he was your new slave,” Azazel commented, following his captain back up the stairs. “Or is he to be a cabin boy now?” Erik glanced over his shoulder with his token unimpressed look, and Azazel shrugged. “Your words, captain.”

“He is indeed mine, and if I should see another lay a hand on him without my permission, that man will meet my wrath,” Erik growled, waving toward his room where the trunks sat in waiting. “And if I recall correctly, my wrath is rather infamous.”

“Mortimer is not fond of what you have done to his tongue, captain,” Janos said simply, though there was the faintest hint of amusement in his tone. “Honestly, I am surprised he has remained a loyal part of the crew.”

“It is not often that you grace us with your wise words, Janos,” Erik commented drily. “Warn us next time,” he said, despite his knowing smile. He didn’t correct the man about Mortimer’s tongue not having a thing to do with his wrath, but the legend proved useful on occasion. Leaving the two to take care of his belongings for their voyage, Erik went to Charles’ room and unlocked it with the set of keys at his hip.

The little would-be lawyer was not awake, of course. He was probably so used to waking at his leisure, rolling out of bed midday and sitting down to read his books and eat fine food that he wouldn’t think there was any alternative. The pirate gritted his teeth, biting back the resentment for the wealthy and the privileged. He had not become a pirate strictly out of hatred for those well-off. No, piracy would not satisfy him nearly enough if that were his aim.

Sighing lowly through his nose, the German stalked quickly to the bed, staring flatly at the young man’s form, curled up in the thin blankets, clutching them as if they were some kind of lifeline. The blue ribbon he’d sneaked back into the boy’s pocket was tangled in his fingers now, his lips barely parted as he breathed quietly. For a moment, Erik paused, taking in Charles’ peaceful, sleeping form again, beautiful and painstakingly innocent. It was almost a waste, he thought distantly, to make such a naturally exquisite creature work, to drag him out to sea and sully such pale skin in the sunlight. But what else was he to do? He wasn’t about to send him home. He couldn’t allow for that sort of message when he was feared and revered in his… career. And of course, he would not say it aloud, but some part of him was simply greedy, eager to keep something so perfect for just himself. His reputation led outsiders to think he held riches in esteem. He never corrected rumors.

“Xavier,” he said shortly, pushing at the boy’s shoulder none too gently. The brunette groaned quietly, brow twitching as he tugged his blankets tighter around him and refused to be roused. “ _Xavier_.” Erik was tempted to simply kick him off the bed, but settled for a slightly more merciful yank of his covers, exposing him to the cool morning air and making him gasp in shock, sitting halfway upright.

“At last. Your sleeping habits will need to be improved if you’re ever to make a decent slave,” the captain commented, dropping the blankets at the end of the bed. “Don’t expect me to wake you every morning.”

“I should be so lucky,” the boy grumbled, clearly still out of his head in the haze of waking, as the previous night’s lessons seemingly hadn’t caught up to him. 

Erik tossed his clothes at his head, earning a muffled yelp of surprise and smirking faintly to himself. “Get dressed. I’m taking you to get boots and we’re loading the ship for departure.”

Charles spluttered, holding his clothes close to his chest as if covering himself up. Erik thought the gesture was entirely unnecessary, considering the boy was wearing his trousers, but Charles seemed to think otherwise, as he flushed and stammered. “I—I thought you said two days! And, and I’m hardly _decent_ , would you—?”

“Quiet,” the pirate snapped, barely refraining from rolling his eyes, clenching his teeth and turning his sharp gaze to his captive. “Modesty will serve you nothing from now on,” he pointed out sharply, Charles flinching at his tone. “Unless I tell you to cover up, there’s no use for your shame. You’ll be living with pirates now.” He grinned slowly, almost baring his teeth. “Shame, humility, and modesty are not often in our vocabulary.”

Charles looked mortified, though he nodded obediently, looking down at his clothes and back to Erik with something close to a pleading gaze.

“Get dressed,” the captain repeated harshly, and Charles sprung into action, practically falling onto the floor on the opposite side of the bed, hurriedly slipping his arms through his vest and his feet into socks, Erik exiting and shutting the door behind him. “He’ll get himself kidnapped with eyes like that,” he muttered to himself, and chose to ignore the irony in the thought.

-

“I, I can’t find it,” Charles said hoarsely, his panic quite evident in his voice as he scrambled through last night’s bed, searching for something frantically. Even Erik could see the genuine dread in the boy’s vibrant eyes, and found it difficult to hold his tongue.

“Find what?” he asked tightly, impatient. He’d just gone to make sure that Azazel and Janos were sorted with the trunks and their own belongings, having returned to take Charles to a cobbler for decent seafaring boots. Though, if Erik was being honest, Charles was something akin to precious in just his bare feet. The possibility he’d end up being more comfortable without shoes was also a possibility the captain’s mind tucked away for later review.

“The ribbon,” the brunette answered almost shyly, seeming hesitant now, eyes darting up to meet Erik’s cautiously, his jaw set but his expression weary. It was important to him, which Erik knew now of course, but he was afraid of punishment. He had set them about five minutes off-schedule, but Erik was a pirate. Many things deviated from any plan set forth, and as impatient as he came off, he wasn’t about to cut the boy’s hand off for something like this.

Erik stared at him disinterestedly before looking down at the floor and raising an eyebrow. “That ribbon?” he asked dully.

Blinking, Charles darted around the bed and gaped, diving for the blue ribbon and dusting it off with a blinding smile on his face, stunning even Erik, who was notoriously unaffected by such trivial things. The boy looked to Erik with a grateful grin before he faltered, the smile falling immediately as he realized what he was doing. Clearing his throat, he straightened his posture and carefully tucked the ribbon away, hand lingering on it in his pocket as he dropped his gaze. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, polite but subdued, as if he was now nervous manners would earn him a smack.

For a split second, Erik debated saying “you’re welcome,” but promptly corrected himself to a more characteristic grunt. No need to seem soft this early on. Or ever, preferably, considering he didn’t need news of any gentility he might possess spreading and ruining his reputation. A kind pirate was an unsuccessful pirate, and he was not about to lose his crew because too many targets got cocky. “You’ve made us late,” he said simply, lowly, turning and setting off down the hall, expecting Charles to follow.

Naturally, the boy was not far behind, wearing the fine old shoes he’d been sold in, head down as if afraid to look at Erik. _Good,_ the taller man thought darkly. _Let his fear be his conscience. Don’t expect much good from the man that owns you_. “It seems unlikely that I need warn you, but I’ll warn you nonetheless,” he began curtly, glancing at the boy over his shoulder as they descended the staircase. “Should you attempt escape again, I will find you.” Stopping abruptly at the end of the stairs, he wheeled around on his heel, Charles sucking in sharply through his teeth, surprised and stumbling back up a step awkwardly as he watched Erik with wide eyes. “I will humiliate you.” He took another step back up, causing the young man to retreat another step, swallowing hard. “And I will make sure both you and the public know that you are mine. _Verstanden?_ ”

Charles opened his mouth to answer, but closed it again, brow furrowed in concern.

“ _Ich habe gesagt_ ,” Erik hissed, lip curling just slightly. “ _Verstehst du?_ ”

The boy nodded vigorously, seemingly at a loss for words. It was likely he hadn’t understood his German, but assumed and hoped he was correct. Erik decided he’d be learning a lot more German from now on, whether by choice or force of habit.

“ _Gut_ ,” Erik said a bit lighter, turning again and waving for him to follow.

-

Charles tried very hard not to linger on Lehnsherr’s warnings, concerning himself more with the fact that they were apparently leaving the same day. He could have sworn the captain had said they departed two days from now, but he supposed any argument would have been futile, and the man seemed likely to change his mind to suit whatever personal needs he had. The only thing lacking to this logic was a reason to leave earlier, though if he had those, Charles doubted he’d share them with his new… No, no he refused to associate that word with himself. He was a person, not an object, and he had been kidnapped, not sold. Such was a delusion much better suited to his self-esteem. It had been hard enough living at home when he knew his mother hadn’t cared for him in years and his step-father never did, but even harder to be sold to a stranger to square away debt. Was that what he summed up to? Was this what his life was worth? Admittedly, he didn’t want the town in danger, especially not from navy attack, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known pirates had something to do with the safety of their shores, but it was terribly crushing to be a person one moment and property the next.

No, Charles focused on the fact that he was about to be taken onto a ship, that would go out to the open ocean where he could inevitably drown, but was expected to live in peaceful cohabitation with. Well he was certainly not about to get on a bloody ship without a fight. He was stubborn by nature, even if his reason got ahead of his desire oftentimes, but his reasoning seemed on par with exactly what he wanted this time around: to keep away from the deep, dark, and dangerous sea.

He’d been so distracted by the looming disaster of being taken aboard a sea vessel that he hadn’t noticed he’d been led into a shop until he nearly ran into Lehnsherr. No—correction—he did, an undignified grunt escaping him as he stumbled back from hitting the solid wall of bone and muscle. There can’t have been much else to him, not when the man was so thin but visibly strong. He apologized profusely, more out of habit than fear of punishment, but he was lucky, because the icy look the man shot him said he’d gotten off lightly.

The captain and the cobbler discussed something in German, and Charles stood awkwardly near a worktable, eying the leather and cut wood that sat on its surface and having to clap his hands behind his back to resist touching and exploring. It wasn’t difficult for his interest to pique when it came to learning something new, and naturally, now was the time for his mind to wonder how shoes were made. Was it difficult? Surely one would get his hands roughened from all that woodwork. Could he make a living? Were some shoes tailored the same as clothes often were? Or was that a preposterous thought? It would likely make a sale more difficult if one couldn’t have stock out straightaway—

“Xavier!”

Charles jumped, startled out of his musings by the sharp call of his name. It held the tone of someone who’d been previously vying for his attention and had yet to succeed in getting it. He stared at the captain almost guiltily before he remembered the man deserved none of his apology. “Yes?” he asked stiffly.

“You can keep your shoes the same as you could have kept your clothes,” the thin man began, and Charles distantly noted his hair had a reddish hue to it in the daylight. “Or you can sit down and let the cobbler find you more appropriate boots. You’ll find no solace from me, however, should you find your simple walking shoes prove useless in a storm or on deck.”

Was it just Charles, or did he detect a hint of exasperated concern? “I think I’d like the boots,” he said quietly, grudgingly following the old cobbler back to the small workroom that lay behind another door.

The cobbler didn’t seem to speak much English—not well, anyway—so Charles kept quiet and simply observed as the man did indeed pull boots from shelves full of ready pairs. He slipped on a few pairs and gestured for Charles to stand, and Charles obeyed, and made the appropriate pained or uncertain expressions when certain pairs were terrible fits. He didn’t expect perfection, not when he had a pirate paying (if he was), and certainly not when it was unlikely said pirate cared much about absolute comfort for his… unpaid servant.

When it seemed he’d found a pair that worked surprisingly well, he smiled warmly at the cobbler, who seemed nice enough anyway, if a bit brusque, and the man nodded and waved him back to the front of the shop. The captain had seated himself near the workbench and stood when Charles emerged. Looking at the brunette’s feet, he nodded in grim approval, and pulled out a pouch of coins to pay the old man. There seemed to be a discrepancy for change, and the cobbler seemed to ask for Lehnsherr to wait while he ducked into another, smaller room.

“Are they comfortable?”

Charles took a moment to realize the pirate was speaking to him. “Yes,” he said simply, biting back an automatic, agreeable smile. He be damned if he smiled for this man if he could help it. He could still control that aspect of his life.

“Good,” he rebutted gruffly. The cobbler shouted something in German at the back, and Lehnsherr scowled, his mouth a thin line. “Stay here,” he told the young man irately, moving to the back and leaving Charles alone in the front of the shop.

With brand new shoes…

In what was certainly his hometown…

Was Lehnsherr completely mad, or did he just honestly believe Charles was just going to stand there and wait for his so-called _master_ to return?

But for some reason, he didn’t feel the pull toward escape. He didn’t feel like running would get him anywhere, especially not if the thin man’s threats were genuine. Charles could easily believe he’d be found before he reached home, and in truth, he no longer had a home.

Chest aching, he accepted defeat and was about to dejectedly study his new boots when a flash of gold caught his eye outside the front window. Eyes wide, he hastened to the front of the shop and looked toward the source, gasping quietly to himself and darting outside without a second thought.

Raven.

If he could just say goodbye, maybe his fate would be that much easier to accept. If he could just remind his little sister that she was never alone, that he would always be with her, and perhaps—if he had anything—something to give her in return…!

He didn’t hear his name called, as he was passing the front window at a brisk run when the pirate captain shouted it.

Of course, it was just his luck that a crowd pressed in, and he quickly lost sight of Raven—or the girl he assumed was his little sister. Panicked, he scrambled amongst the throng, pardoning himself and tripping over his own feet. He ended up in the middle of the road when he no longer had the slightest inkling of the direction she’d gone. Hands in his hair, he spun in place, hopeless and sorrowful as a terrible ache settled in his chest. He really would never see her again. Turning to look up and down the street one last time, he barely had time to register a familiar face lunging at him before he was tackled to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Verstanden?" Understand?
> 
> "Ich habe gesagt, ‘Verstehst du?’" = I said, ‘Do you understand?’ (in informal speech)
> 
> "Gut." = Good.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik catches up with Charles, and enter the first mate. 
> 
> EDIT: German derps corrected. Thank you for the reminders, German natives! I promise I'm not so completely inept when I speak it.

“ _Und ist jetzt alles gut?”_ Erik asked tiredly, passing the man his coins again and leveling him with a weary gaze.

“ _Ja. Danke schön, Erik_. _Es tut mir leid so viel von ihrer Zeit in Anspruch genommen zu haben,_ ” the cobbler replied apologetically, smiling a familiar smile and waving the captain off.

Erik returned to the front of the shop, irritation quelled by the old man’s familiarity, when he was so unused to it. He stopped dead when he saw dark green and brown dash past the window, and upon a second more’s inspection, he realized it had been Charles.

Charles had run.

Erik had explicitly warned him not to.

Fury blossomed in his chest, ten times as familiar as the cobbler’s friendly smile. Erik was out of the shop like a shot, snarling like a crazed lion as his long legs carried him faster than he could think. He’d lost sight of the boy a moment too long, even if he’d caught the direction. Charles Xavier would not—could not—escape; it was more than just Erik’s reputation at stake if he did. There was authority, there was respect, and possibly even territory to lose. Not to mention the lurking reason he’d taken the boy, the reason no one else knew of yet. But what would the little English coastal town think if their pirate protector and threat couldn’t even control one young slave boy? He was not particularly fond of killing, in truth, he only did what had to be done. He had no desire to massacre any resistance, and truthfully, he and the crew of _die Freiheit_ had a good thing going. Erik couldn’t risk losing track of the damned rich boy he’d taken as payment for the continued protection of Wareham.

Charles hadn’t gotten far, and Erik spotted him in the middle of the road, looking lost and hurt and sad, but Erik’s fury overwhelmed the little compassion he seemed to have left, and he didn’t think as he lunged for the boy and threw him front-down to the ground with as little effort as if he’d been lifeless. Charles made a breathless grunting noise as they collided, and a pained cry as he hit the cobblestones.

“What are you—?” Charles asked roughly, brow furrowed as he looked over his shoulder at his attacker. It dawned on him rather quickly as Erik straddled his back and pressed his wrists to the road sharply. “I, I wasn’t—,” he stammered, panic written in his features as he squirmed uncomfortably.

“Shut your mouth, boy,” Erik snapped, leaning to his ear, passers-by deliberately giving them a wide berth. Charles flinched, shutting his mouth obediently and closing his eyes. Erik could feel his breathing escalate. “You really tried this, even after I warned you of what would happen if you did?” he hissed, moving a hand from one of the young man’s wrists to the back of his neck, pressing his face to the cold stones and earning a huff of protest, Charles twisting under his weight. “I could kill you.”

The boy froze, eyes flying open suddenly as his breath caught. His bright blue gaze flicked to Erik’s level stare, and he could tell he was being analyzed for sincerity. His conclusion was correct, if his rough swallow and trembling was enough indication. “Better slaves have been killed for much less offensive disobedience,” Erik went on darkly, having witnessed it himself. “And I warned you.”

“Please,” Charles said in a small voice, no longer able to look at the German man, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in his nervousness. Erik caught the motion, and wondered what else would make him do such a pretty thing. “I was only—”

“Did I say you could speak?”

Charles shut his eyes again, pressing his lips together, and Erik squeezed his neck for a moment before letting it go, thinking he’d much prefer to see Charles making a face like that for other reasons. The boy shuddered, his fingers curling, and he moved his free arm closer to himself. After a moment, he shook his head.

“Then you had better hope your excuse is palatable.” Erik waited patiently, and Charles licked his lips again before quietly speaking.

“My sister,” he murmured cautiously, opening his eyes and seeming to stare at the stones beneath him. “I thought I saw my little sister. I only wanted to say goodbye. I—I wasn’t trying to leave.” He grimaced a little, expecting a blow, but Erik only narrowed his gaze. “I daren’t think what would become of me if I did and was discovered. I, I understand… my place now,” he finished weakly, his voice breaking during his last few words, and he bit his lip a moment, closing his eyes again. “I didn’t get to—to say goodbye,” he said softly, and even a hardened criminal like Erik could feel the sadness in his tone.

Erik growled lowly, making Charles cringe before he got off of his back, grabbing the collar of his shirts and frock and heaving him to his feet. The boy stumbled slightly, but Erik caught under his arm and hauled him down the street forcefully, pointedly staring ahead with a scowl on his lips. Dragging him back toward the house he stayed in when the ship was docked, the captain ignored his first mate, much to her chagrin, as he threw open the front door and heaved the boy toward the staircase.

The smaller male fumbled, nearly tripping up the steps, but raced up them in his panic, his older counterpart wrinkling his nose and swiftly striding up after him. Charles ran to the room he’d stayed in the previous night, and made to slam the door, but the pirate was too fast, stopping it inches before it could shut and throwing it open again, Charles leaping back out of the way. The boy scrambled around to the other side of the bed, and Erik slammed the door shut himself, watching him at an angle and coming off as particularly dangerous.

“Captain Lehnsherr, please,” the young man began hastily, voice raw as he used the bed to separate them. Erik sidled up to the mattress, silent as he merely watched him with his jaw clenched. “I, I was telling the truth!”

Erik took the edge of the bed and pushed, knocking the boy’s knees and earning a startled yelp as he stumbled back in shock at the sudden display of his strength, as if he didn’t already know he was much stronger. “You shouldn’t have done that,” the captain lowed, frowning deeply and savoring the brief look of plain awe on his captive’s features.

“I realize that, and I truly am sorry,” Charles said, somehow eloquent despite his palatable fear. “I meant no—disobedience. I merely thought that, that I could catch her to say goodbye.”

“And did you?”

Clearly startled by this, Charles hesitated before he glanced away, dejected and sorrowful. “I don’t even know if it was her. I lost her in the crowd…” He gave another yelp and pressed himself against the wall as the bed frame was scooted closer again, Erik childishly annoyed at the loss of attention.

“You expect me to believe that?” Erik hissed, lip curling in distaste.

Charles kept a wary eye on the bed, frowning at the thin man with renewed heat. “Whether or not you believe it does not change that it is the truth!” he snapped defiantly, and something in between rage and amusement gave Erik pause, kept him from launching across the mattress and ripping the boy to shreds. Erik’s eyes fell to the boy’s pale neck for a stunted moment.

“Get on the bed,” he deadpanned.

Charles’ mouth snapped shut, and he stared at Erik with wide eyes, clearly trying to maintain his bold façade. After a moment, he even shook his head, a blush creeping up his neck.

Erik meaningfully pushed the bed toward him close enough to trap him but not crush his legs, glaring hotly. He really did hate repeating himself. “I said: Get. On. The bed, Xavier.”

“N-no.”

Erik made to move around the frame, and Charles immediately rushed to get on the mattress to evade him; the captain easily shoved the furniture against the wall and set a knee on the mattress as the boy scrambled to press his back against the wall again, cornered. He looked appropriately terrified again, bringing his knees to his chest in an attempt to close his body up, breathing heavily and unevenly as Erik held out an arm expectantly. Charles stared at his hand in disbelieving confusion and furrowed his brow, arms wrapping tighter around his legs.

“Come here,” Erik growled, expression still hard, though it softened just the slightest bit when Charles winced and shook his head mutely. “Does it hurt?” he asked firmly, trying his best not to let concern slip into the question.

Charles blinked, looking steadily more confused the longer they stared at each other. Erik scowled, and the boy finally opened his mouth. “Does what hurt?” he asked carefully, once again looking distrustfully to his hand.

“Your neck.”

“…Not really,” Charles answered softly, shoulders relaxing a little as he met Erik’s gaze again, startled and puzzled. He clearly did not know there were faint bruises from where Erik had held him the previous night and moments ago.

Grunting in disbelief, he motioned with stiff fingers for the boy to come forward again, and narrowed his gaze at the sight of the red and faintly bluish marks at the sides of his neck. Delaying a decision, Charles slowly reached to his own throat and prodded at his skin, cringing when he touched affected skin and frowning. Finally, he shifted, moving to reluctantly crawl over to Erik, who caught his arm and pulled him closer impatiently, ignoring the brunette’s panicked wince.

Pushing the boy’s jaw up and sideways, he leaned slightly to look at the bruises, Charles’ eyes flicking off to the side in some silent discomfort or refusal to look at him. Erik grumbled to himself, irritated he’d spoiled such fine skin without pleasure having been involved, and distantly glad they didn’t seem to ache at a light touch, even if Charles stiffened when Erik barely placed his fingers against the bruises. “And your face?” he grunted, turning his chin to make him meet his eyes.

Charles stared at him with something like skeptical awe. “Bearable,” he said quietly.

Erik turned, leaving the boy on the bed and looking to his small luggage case. “I assume you’re prepared to go,” he said, though he wasn’t exactly giving him much choice.

“Yes.”

“ _Gut_ ,” he muttered, moving for the door. “Don’t try a stunt like that again, despite your excuse, Charles,” he lowed as he opened the door, met with a very displeased blonde woman’s hat. “Emma,” he said simply, unphased by her disapproving frown.

“Captain,” she said primly in response. “How much are you paying him to throw him around like that? Finished yet?”

Erik scowled, narrowing his gaze sharply, bristling at the implication that he’d hired a prostitute. “Emma,” he repeated in a much darker, warning tone. “I have not bedded this boy.”

Glancing past him, Emma gave Charles a once-over, raising an eyebrow and earning a confused, displeased frown. “Really? You should, he’s very pretty.”

Shoving her shoulders, Erik pushed her further into the hall and shut the door behind himself as he growled, “This boy is mine, _verstanden?_ No one is to touch him without my permission. _No one_.”

Emma now gave Erik a similar sizing-up, smirking. “That’s your new slave? And you haven’t fucked him?” she asked, amused and disbelieving.

Erik’s fists clenched, and the blonde rolled her eyes, sweeping hair over her shoulder. “All right, Erik. I understand. No one. Damn, if I didn’t know any better, I would say you’ve already got a soft spot for him.”

“Emma.”

Hands up in surrender, his first mate shook her head and turned to leave. “I only came to tell you that _die Freiheit_ is ready to set sail.”

“ _Natürlich_ ,” Erik muttered, staring her down. Rolling her eyes again, she retreated with a dramatic sigh, and Erik pushed back into Charles’ room, startling him.

“I—sorry,” he said awkwardly, having nearly dropped his small luggage. “Are… are we to be going, then?” the brunette asked uncertainly, clearly dreading the thought.

Captain Lehnsherr nodded. “It’s time to depart, Charles Xavier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Und ist jetzt alles gut?" = And now is everything all right?
> 
> "Ja. Danke schön." = Yes. Thank you very much.
> 
> "Es tut mir leid so viel von ihrer Zeit in Anspruch genommen zu haben." = I apologize for using up so much of your time.
> 
> "Verstanden?" = Understand? (Get used to this one.)
> 
> "Natürlich." = Naturally. (Can also mean “of course,” etc.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles gets a wee bit seasick, meets his additional bosses, and Erik inadvertently gives away his miniscule compassionate side. A nice, long update for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The German here is almost all explained within the same paragraph or is a word you’ve seen several times already. For the record, I’m well aware that Logan is Canadian (according to himself). Charles, however, is not.

Charles gaped at the docked ship, boarding plank only meters away, much different from what he pictured. He’d somehow imagined something far grander, painted black perhaps, with a dozen portholes for cannons and too many sails to count. What he saw before him was instead much smaller than he thought would be reasonable, still bigger than many of the surrounding ships, but the vessel was longer, narrower than the broad grandeur he’d expected.

Erik nudged his shoulder to remind him to keep moving forward, and Charles ducked his head again, forcing himself to refrain from gawking like some simpleton who had never seen a ship before. He trailed after the captain, looking it over more surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye as they stepped quickly up the gangplank. It was much easier to hear voices when they made it on deck, and Charles froze approximately three steps onto the ship, eyes widening at the sudden attention he received.

It seemed as though every single crewmember was gawping at him, assessing the newcomer that had followed their captain on board. Erik had turned and continued on his way, and Charles tried to tell his legs to catch up, but he couldn’t move due to the combination of two dozen pairs of eyes on him and the steady rocking of the ship. As if the attention weren’t bad enough, the ship was swaying lightly beneath his feet. He thought his knees would buckle and he’d be forced to collapse, but a strong hand wrapped around his forearm and pulled him out of his panicked thoughts.

“This is Charles Xavier,” Lehnsherr said loudly, pointedly addressing the two men a few feet away that seemed to be particularly interested in the young man, a tall, thin brunette and a much burlier man covered in body hair. Charles swallowed hard, eyes still wide as he cautiously looked up to the captain. “He belongs to me. Should anyone lay a hand on him without absolute necessity or my explicit permission, they shall find acquaintance with Davy Jones ahead of schedule,” he announced, grip tightening a moment on Charles’ arm and making him wince.

The crew swapped glances, some knowing, some curious, others exchanging whispers in addition as Erik hauled Charles toward a short set of steps and a door.

“C-captain,” Charles began uneasily, already getting nauseated as he clutched his single luggage box to his chest and shuddered. He stumbled into the cabin clumsily, quickly backing into a wall as the ginger man released him. “I think,” he began weakly, bending forward slightly and breathing unevenly. He was going to be sick any moment now, he just knew it. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he said, voice strained. He bit back a yelp as the taller man came over and gripped his shoulders, pushing him down to the floor, which was surprisingly dry, and crouching in front of him. Charles shut his eyes, pressing his lips together nervously as his luggage was pried out of his arms and one of his wrists was seized. “Please,” he said quietly, confused and anxious, flinching and clenching his hands into fists as Lehnsherr dug the pads of his fingers into his skin. But the man remained silent and otherwise unmoving, and Charles risked a peek.

The captain seemed to be focusing on the point on Charles’ wrist that he was pressing so insistently on, and Charles’ brow furrowed as he stared at the man’s—he’d thought they were green before, but now they seemed gray—eyes, trying to decipher his intent. “W-what…?” he asked carefully, “What are you doing?”

Grunting in response, Erik grabbed the back of Charles’ neck and pulled his head down rather suddenly, earning a yelp as he quickly moved his knees to accommodate, breathing raggedly in panic. He had no idea what was going on, but he wasn’t about to argue.

“Breathe,” the man instructed gruffly, and Charles found it much easier to obey than he’d originally thought.

After what felt like hours but was mere minutes, Charles could feel his guts quell, no longer lurching and churning even though he could still feel the rock of the ship beneath him. Calmed, he let his fists relax, his trembling ceasing; the pirate seemed to sense the change, and released his wrist, getting up and scooping up the boy’s luggage. Charles lifted his head slowly, watching the older man warily, wondering why he’d helped him with his nausea when he could have either let him suffer it or sent him on deck to vomit into the sea. He daren’t chalk it up to any amount of personal concern. The German probably dealt with nausea all the time, if the rocking of even a docked ship was any indication of the perils awaiting them in the future.

The brunette stayed put, uncertain of what would be required of him when the man dropped his luggage on a small bed (or what Charles assumed was a bed) and stalked back over to him. Charles instinctively gathered his legs closer again, unable to tear his gaze away once the captain had caught it. “I-I,” he stammered stupidly, cursing his mouth for failing him when the man once again crouched before him.

“Better?” Lehnsherr asked lowly, a hint of impatience in his tone. He looked to the boy’s hands a moment before meeting his eye once more.

Charles nodded mutely, realizing he’d clutched his other wrist and begun pressing on the same point Lehnsherr had.

“Then get up,” the captain said simply, rising himself and moving to a table covered in maps and a few books.

“Where did you learn that?” Charles blurted before he could think, using the wall as leverage to help himself up. He’d never seen a doctor do that, and Raven had recently had a bout with a nasty flu, nauseated most hours of the day. The doctor had only told her to lay back and breathe evenly in the dark. The pirate’s trick was effective, and Charles couldn’t help but be curious, even if he did feel the need to press himself against the wall again when the captain turned to glare at him.

“The Chinese have interesting but effective methods to remedy simple ailments,” the man answered in his usual low tone, turning his attention back to the maps upon the table. “Now,” he said shortly, “be quiet.”

The boy licked his lips absently, lowering his gaze a moment, annoyed that he’d been dismissed so easily, even if he did get his answer. Lehnsherr had clearly traversed the world, and Charles had heard of the Chinese and their strange medicines, but he wanted to know more. He bit his tongue to keep from making the mistake of speaking when he’d been instructed to be silent, unwilling to experience the same roughness it had brought him the night previous. Besides, he should hardly want to make conversation with the man that supposedly owned him. It seemed entirely unfair that he was experienced and apparently intelligent when Charles had to retain dignity by not giving him the satisfaction of his interest. At least, this was how he convinced himself he had any power at all in his situation.

After a few minutes of just standing against the corner like a mute moron, Charles carefully edged away from the cabin wall and went toward the area he’d seen Lehnsherr set down his luggage box. He was quiet enough, considering the ship made quiet creaks and one could hear the ocean lap against it, and he found that there was indeed a small bed tucked into the corner, a larger one nearby. He wondered why the ship had been designed this way, if the original captain traveled with a child… or perhaps a slave of their own. He pushed aside the thought, staring uselessly at the box and swaying slightly as he attempted to adjust to the subtle movements of gentle wake. It was difficult not to think of how much worse it was going to be once they were truly out at sea, and Charles quickly pinched his wrist to quell the second wave of nausea at the very thought.

“Can you mend?”

Charles nearly leapt out of his skin, he’d been so caught up in his thoughts. He spun to face the pirate, knocking his knees against the edge of the bed in the process and wincing, bending to rub at them awkwardly, blushing in embarrassment. “I-I’m sorry, what?” he asked carefully, sitting on the surprisingly comfortable mattress and looking up at him apologetically.

Lehnsherr leveled him with another of his unimpressed looks. “Mend. Can you mend, Xavier?”

“What, clothes?” Charles asked dumbly. But before the captain could even form a proper frown, he went on. “Ah, no. No, I never… I never learned,” he confessed almost sheepishly. He shouldn’t be embarrassed, not really, not when mending was meant to be women’s work and he’d been dragged from such separated tasks rather literally. He’d been lucky enough he knew how to do other chores, really.

“Of course you didn’t,” the captain muttered, moving to a small trunk near the larger bed and pulling out a small cloth roll. “You’ll learn. What _are_ you capable of, since your hands say you aren’t much labored?” he went on, slightly annoyed but apparently more weary than angry.

Charles frowned in disapproval at the frank condescension, but thought. “The washing,” he began hesitantly, slightly embarrassed. “Law. Sciences, as well…”

“Very useful in the middle of the ocean,” the captain said smoothly, quirking a brow and handing the brunette the small bundle. “They told me you could work,” the ginger man said with an irate tone.

“Well I wasn’t exactly expecting to become forced slave labor, was I?” Charles snapped back, scowling indignantly. “Maybe if I’d had some _warning_ , you’d have gotten a much better errand boy or, or tailor, or whatever else it is you plan on making me d— _hnn!_ ”

The pirate captain was glaring viciously as he gripped the boy’s jaw and yanked him upward with a merciless snarl. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much, Xavier?” he growled. Charles flinched, shutting his eyes and half-raising his arms, terrified pushing him away would earn him punishment. In a split second, he was released, and his entire head reverberated with the ache Lehnsherr’s slap left. “ _Look_ at me when I’m speaking to you,” he demanded, voice still low despite the obvious rage in it.

Charles obeyed, flicking his eyes sideways and slowly reaching up to hold his face for the sting. So they were back to slapping. Wonderful, simply wonderful. The pirate’s posture had relaxed, but his eyes held the same fury. “Should you speak to me like that again, you’ll meet more than just a smack, boy,” Lehnsherr warned, and Charles was suddenly reminded of his stepfather. The thought made him nauseated again, and he gritted his teeth to keep from looking away as he so badly wanted to. Something must have shown in his face, because the pirate seemed to soften the tiniest bit, his glare no longer hostile but assessing. He seemed to have something on the tip of his tongue, but apparently decided against saying whatever it was, turning away from Charles again. “You’ll learn,” he muttered gravely, and the brunette had the distinct feeling he was truly leaving something out.

Rubbing absently at his stinging cheek, Charles picked up the rolled cloth in his lap and untied the small bit of string that kept it wrapped. Opened in his lap was a sewing kit, needles and thread, a thimble, and a small pair of scissors tucked into neat little pockets, the needles stuck through a bit of burlap. Charles wasn’t sure what to do with these things. Well, perhaps he wasn’t completely helpless, as he’d seen Raven sew many times before, embroidering cushions and the like. But watching and theorizing did not equate practice or skill. He hoped the captain didn’t expect him to suddenly be an expert.

“Someone will teach you,” the pirate said gruffly, gathering maps into a stack and pushing them aside. “You will also learn how to handle the sails and rigging. You will likely learn how to cook.” Charles glanced up from the sewing kit and gritted his teeth, but the man simply went on. “If I give you an order, you will obey. If someone else tells you to do something, you will do it. Unless it directly compromises your safety, or I have told you otherwise.”

The boy blinked at this, surprised and immediately suspicious. “What do you care about my safety?” he asked, though he didn’t sound angry. In truth, he was more confused. He was his slave, why not let someone do as they pleased? Not to mention that would technically give him the freedom to decide what was dangerous. If Charles didn’t know any better, he’d say the man was attempting to protect him.

Apparently, the captain had come to the same conclusion, and turned his attention to the younger man with an unreadable expression. “What use are you if you’re injured or immobile?” he asked lowly after what seemed like an internal debate. Charles pressed his lips together, thoroughly corrected. “Get your head around your position, Xavier. You were doing well for a few minutes, and then you had the gall to assume I held sentiment or compassion for you. You’d best be prepared for hard work and little room for sympathy.” Smirking the tiniest bit, he angled his head to look down his nose at the young man. “Or have you already forgotten that I own you?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Charles said tightly through his teeth.

“ _Gut_ ,” Lehnsherr said simply, “It would be unfortunate if you came off as a disobedient fool in front of less merciful eyes.”

Charles’ brow knit in confusion and mild horror. ‘In front of less merciful eyes?’ What was that supposed to mean? “And you are merciful?” he asked, trying to disguise the snide remark with an innocent gaze attached.

The pirate donned a strangely animalistic grin, reminding Charles much of a wolf baring its teeth. “I assure you, Charles Xavier. If you had been given to a different man among this crew, you would be suffering a great deal more for that mouth of yours. You should be grateful.”

“ _Grateful?_ ” Charles echoed disbelievingly, scoffing with distaste. “I was given away as if I were _property_ , to a pirate with a fondness for _intimidating_ me, and I’m about to be taken out to _sea,_ where any manner of _disaster_ could occur and no one here at home would be any _wiser!_ ” he argued, chest aching with the brutal facts of the matter. As Lehnsherr approached in that rushing heat he was so terribly good at, Charles flinched, dropping his gaze and turning his face in preparation for a reprimanding blow at the sight of the man’s raised hand.

“ _Schau mich an_ ,” hissed the pirate captain, but Charles couldn’t understand, and remained with his gaze cast to the side. “ _Look at me!_ ” he repeated angrily in English, the brunette obeying immediately. Lehnsherr grabbed his jaw and upper arm again, dragging him precariously upright and to his face. A few measly inches remained between them when he spoke again. “Have you any idea what happens to a pretty little thing like you when he is sold into slavery?” he growled. Charles could only look anxiously between his eyes, distantly thinking of them as crystal blue this time. “ _Do_ you?” he snapped.

“N-no,” Charles admitted weakly, hands unconsciously clutching the front of the taller man’s frock and shirt.

“You are particularly beautiful, Xavier. You would have become a kept boy, a catamite whore for some sick nobleman overseas,” the pirate began vindictively, smooth and shameless in his meaning. “Every day, possibly every hour, you would be drugged and raped by any man your master saw fit to treat you. You would bare scars on any and every part of your body, and you would remain shackled in some way for the rest of your miserable life, fucked by men that wouldn’t car to even learn your name.”

Charles felt nauseated again, grimacing as his heart raced dangerous in his chest. He stared, his fear finally escaping through his entire being. He shook, and the pirate’s expression shifted to something slightly softer, his grip minutely loosening. “I-I—,” Charles stammered in a small voice.

“Is that what you want, Charles? Would you rather be a sex slave than your lucky equivalent of a cabin boy?”

“No. N-no, I—I’m sorry,” the would-be lawyer breathed weakly, feeling as if his knees would give in any moment and he would collapse onto the floor.

Lehnsherr stared him down, his hold on the boy steadily loosening until he let him go entirely; Charles fell haphazardly back onto the small bed, still shaking and averting his eyes as the pirate slowly bent over his figure again, a hand on either side of the boy’s hips. Charles swallowed hard, expending a phenomenal amount of effort to keep from scrambling farther back onto the bed as he had only hours ago, safe on land.

“You’d fetch a pretty penny, if I felt I wanted to sell you,” the captain lowed, again much too close to Charles’ face for comfort. “And there isn’t a thing you could do about it. You are mine now, and you wouldn’t stand a chance if you fought.”

Charles’ breath came in short bursts, his thoughts addled and frightened. His captor was correct on all accounts of course, and he was even more powerless aboard this ship than he had been the previous night in a house in his hometown.

“ _Verstanden?_ ”

Charles nodded carefully, realizing he’d leaned back just slightly. He was silently glad Lehnsherr hadn’t tried to close the gap. He could feel his eyes on him, raking up and down his body, and he dared not think of what that gaze was searching for. “Yes,” he said quietly, and the pirate retreated with a startling speed.

“You’ll need to be introduced to the crew you’ll be working most with,” the pirate said dismissively, moving back to the table and frowning. “Come with me,” he commanded almost gently, heading for the cabin’s door without looking back at his young slave.

Charles got to his feet as quickly as possible, stumbling off-balance for his unstable trembling. He made it to the door as the captain opened it, and was promptly blinded by the midday sun.

 

-

 

“Who the hell are you?” blurted a pale boy with fiery hair and freckles across his face, giving Charles a confused and slightly frustrated look. His accent was distinctly American, and Charles wondered why he’d come this way when the colonies and the king were not currently on the best of terms. “Captain?” he added uncertainly as Charles was nudged forward in front of Lehnsherr and up the few steps. Something seemed to dawn on the redhead—who could be no older than Charles himself, surely—and he snapped his mouth shut, turning to scuttle away, but the captain snagged the back of his thin shirt and dragged him bag. The boy gave a yelp, but looked up at his superior contritely. “Yes, captain?” he asked cautiously.

“Is there a reason you’re wandering about?” Lehnsherr asked with a hard stare. “Surely there’s something better for you to be doing.”

The redhead gave a nervous chuckle, shuffling his bare feet. Charles thought for a moment that he must be terribly used to ship decks to wear no shoes. “Yes, well, you see, I was just on my way to do exactly that—,” the boy began beseechingly, but Lehnsherr made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, similar to the growl Charles had heard numerous times. “Alex said there was someone new onboard and that they went into your cabin,” he babbled in a rush, gaze flicking to Charles for a moment. “I was just curious, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—interrupt?” he went on, brow furrowed again.

“I’ve already introduced him. Where were you fifteen minutes ago, considering you didn’t hear?” the taller man demanded, though the anger in his voice had ebbed.

“In the kitchens,” confessed his subordinate with a sheepish grin.

“You’ll eat us into starvation, Cassidy,” the captain said, rolling his eyes and releasing the redhead’s collar. Cassidy looked relieved, grin widening as he risked looking to Charles again. “Uh. Sorry. I was eating when you came onboard, I guess,” the boy offered the brunette, and held out his hand. “My name’s Sean Cassidy.”

Charles was lost. He had no idea why the pirate captain was being benign to an inferior crewmember that apparently had aggravated him somehow; he certainly wasn’t so kind when _Charles_ displeased him. What’s more, Charles wasn’t certain if acknowledging the boy without… permission would get one or both of them punished. As it were, Lehnsherr was watching him expectantly, seemingly waiting for him to make a fatal flaw, so Charles took it upon himself to do the polite thing and shake the other boy’s hand. “Charles Xavier,” he said easily, a tiny, anxious smile on his lips.

“He belongs to me,” the captain cut it in a low voice, addressing Sean directly.

Sean’s eyebrows rose dramatically, and he looked Charles up and down again, mouth opening to speak, but Lehnsherr put a hand on Charles’ shoulder and quirked a brow in return, effectively silencing him. The phenomenon was extraordinary, as if Sean knew exactly what that meant; he shut his mouth and turned on his heel, scampering away as he had attempted to before.

Charles swallowed hard, but refused to look at the ginger as he was steered toward another part of the ship, toward what must have been the front. The crew they passed pointedly avoided looking at either of them, Lehnsherr exuding danger and challenge that even Charles could feel pricking against the back of his head. He led him to another door that led below deck, a kitchen and a dozen tables to his right and dozens of hammocks to his left. He was directed to the kitchen, where the large, hairy man he’d seen upon boarding the ship turned; the man paused, frowning slightly as he surveyed the comparably much smaller young man and Charles gaped, nervous. He hadn’t gotten a decent look at the man before, and now he realized he’d never seen a man with so many muscles or quite so much hair.

“Who’s this?” the wide man asked, skeptical gaze turning somewhat appraising as Charles clamped his jaw shut. “Pickin’ up more strays, cap?”

Before Charles could process even a vague idea of what that could have possibly meant, he caught the captain’s glare.

“Odd, I could have sworn you were above deck when I told the crew exactly who he is,” Lehnsherr said tightly, clearly not amused.

The hairy man grinned. “He’s adorable, I’ll give ya that,” he chuckled, as if completely unaffected by the German’s anger. Charles was momentarily stunned. A distant part of his mind noted that he had a strange accent, even for an American. “Good find. Anyway, what’s he doin’ down here?” Charles was not fond of being talked about as if he was not, in fact, present. Scowling, he was about to speak for himself when Lehnsherr’s grip tightened on his shoulder, earning a wince of pain from him instead.

“ _Mein Gott_ , Logan, you don’t think I’m going to store him in my cabin all day,” the captain insisted, still speaking through his teeth, his accent slightly heightened, making his consonants a bit harsher. Charles had to resist the urge to push his hand away. No one’s grip should be so tight, he thought irately. “He’s here to work. That’s why I took him.”

“Kidnapping? That’s new, even for you.”

Lehnsherr literally growled, and the brunette under his hand winced a little louder and bit his lip. “I kidnapped no one. He was a trade for Wareham’s protection,” he hissed. Logan seemed to understand this, shrugging, but he glanced to Charles, who was staring off to the side and lowering the shoulder the ginger held.

“You’re hurtin’ him,” he said simply, sniffing and turning back to the sacks he’d been filtering through.

Much to Charles’ surprise, Lehnsherr released his grip, freeing his shoulder from being crushed into shattered bone; Charles held his sore shoulder weakly, and couldn’t help but edge away slightly, unable to look at him. His heart was pounding, thoughts running through his mind haphazardly. _He said “who” not “what,” what does he care if his crew thinks him a kidnapper, he’s a pirate, why did he listen to the bloody cook, why was he kind to that freckled boy, how can he possibly be that strong, good lord have I broken something?_

“He can’t cook,” Lehnsherr said, breaking Charles out of his private ranting.

Logan chuckled again, an altogether pleasant sound, as he rose to his feet from his crouch. “Show me an Xavier that can, and I’ll be surprised.”

Charles didn’t have the will to glare, but he frowned slightly all the same.

“He’ll be your assistant when he’s not with Summers or myself,” Lehnsherr went on, dismissing the comment. When Logan frowned and looked at him disbelievingly, he narrowed his gaze. “ _Alles klar?_ ” he lowed in German, and even Charles got the intention of it.

Logan sighed loudly, running a hand through his rather interesting hair before leveling a look at Charles, who had finally looked to him. The boy jumped, startled at the lack of malice in the large man’s eyes. “Xavier, right?” Charles blinked, but nodded. He didn’t dare extend his hand when he had a feeling he was already due punishment for shaking with Sean. “All right. I’ll see you when you’re sent down here,” he said simply, looking to Lehnsherr. The captain gave a curt nod, and Logan returned to his sacks, which Charles could now see held potatoes and flour.

“Deck,” the German said shortly, looking to Charles.

The brunette didn’t hesitate, ducking his head and slipping past him to dart up the narrow steps to the door and show himself out of the lower hull. He stopped just outside the door, figuring he neither knew where he was going, nor wanted to incur the captain’s wrath for seemingly getting too far ahead. He still held his shoulder, gritting his teeth at the ache and looking to the sky warily. His eyes widened as someone came plummeting from above, screaming in what he hoped was delight and coming right at him.

He was yanked back just in time as the redhead from before—Sean—landed roughly on the deck, knees wobbling as he fell limply onto his back, cackling madly as someone else landed a bit more gracefully at his side.

“Sorry, captain,” the less winded boy said, cracking his knuckles and making Charles grimace. Another American. He blinked at the brunette, brow knit the same way Sean’s had been only minutes ago. “…Sorry,” he said again, more cautiously, hauling Sean to his feet. The redhead wobbled, and the blonde who’d hoisted him held him against his side as well, slinging an arm around his shoulder.

“Summers,” the captain said smoothly, “I believe I have a solution your woes.” He smirked faintly, and the blonde frowned, looking skeptically at Charles, and Charles wondered if all pirates received newcomers with skepticism. He was tempted to defend himself, but was sharply reminded of what a terrible idea it would be as his shoulder throbbed.

“He looks soft,” the boy huffed, and Charles had just enough pride to look appropriately offended. He was yet again about to defend himself when this time the German set his hand on the back of his neck; he froze, panic gripping his heart. “Are you sure he can do… anything?”

“He’s a quick learner,” Lehnsherr replied wryly, and the brunette was surprised that the man wasn’t holding onto his neck as if it were some kind of lifeline. He didn’t need to look to know the man was smiling.

“Have you ever climbed before?” the boy—Summers, Lehnsherr had said—asked him suspiciously.

When the captain didn’t squeeze, he assumed it was safe to answer. “Trees, when I was smaller,” he answered in a startlingly confident voice, despite just how small he was feeling. His mother had disapproved of such activities, as sap often stained his clothes and his shoes wore down much quicker. But he remembered enjoying it. He had to wonder what kind of work needed a question like that, and he looked up carefully, frowning at—

The sails. Oh.

“I’m surprised you haven’t broken bones yet, Cassidy,” the captain commented, chuckling lowly. “Jumping from the crow’s nest yet?”

“No, still just the first sail,” the redhead responded glumly. “It’s fun, though,” he added, beaming excitedly, though it quelled with Lehnsherr’s flat look.

“You aren’t helping, leaping after him like that,” the ginger said, directing his attention to the blonde. “I don’t need dead crewmen, thank you.”

“I thought you said I’d break a bone!” Sean argued uncertainly, scandalized, and something about his reaction made Charles smile the tiniest bit. “No one said I could _die_ ,” he protested further.

“You are so damned stupid sometimes, Sean,” Summers muttered, rolling his eyes tiredly and hefting him farther onto his hip as the redhead’s legs slumped in disappointment. “Anyway. Sean and I fix up the sails and handle the mast. I guess you’ll be joining us,” he said in a tone that indicated long suffering.

Charles nodded mutely, tilting his head just slightly at the moping redhead. The two turned to go below deck, Sean mumbling about death and flying while Summers assured him he’d be just fine. The captain shifted his hand to the back of Charles’ head, and for a moment, the young man was terrified he would pull viciously on his hair again; he let out a short breath of relief as Lehnsherr merely directed his attention upward to himself.

“We set sail in half an hour,” the German informed him quietly. “I suggest you get yourself situated.”

The young man stared at him, trying to keep the apprehensive mistrust from his features. “…I don’t understand,” he admitted.

Lehnsherr quirked a brow, something he appeared to enjoy doing. “As I said to Logan, I’m not trapping you in my cabin the entire time we sail. You have free reign of this ship,” he explained curtly, slightly impatient. “Though I cannot recommend you speak to much of the rest of the crew. You will not be treated terribly mercifully, being what you are.”

Charles glared hotly, bristling slightly. “And what am I?” he snapped defiantly.

“Mine,” the German deadpanned, unimpressed. “Though they will not use such a… harmless word.” Charles felt his stomach drop. “Remember what I told you, and what I told them. They will not touch you, Charles. They would not dare.”

“Why?” Charles croaked weakly, confused and frustrated and suddenly quite homesick. “Why would you let me wander even the ship?” He hated the tight feeling in his chest, the way the back of his eyes stung. He shook his head. “You show cruelty, and then you display kindness,” he accused, dropping his gaze and balling his fists, aware that the captain’s hand had fallen to the back of his neck again. “You keep me like some—some _pet_ , but you give me miniscule freedoms. What do you _want_ from me?” he demanded, though his throat was constricting more every moment. He bit his tongue to keep from letting himself tear up.

“Look at me.”

Charles froze, shaking his head after a moment of deliberation.

“Charles. Look at me,” the man repeated a little firmer, but quieter.

The brunette swallowed hard and narrowed his gaze to meet Lehnsherr’s. The captain’s expression was hard, dark as he leaned down just slightly, his grip still strangely light on his neck. Charles was having difficulty breathing.

“If you were a pet, I would put you on a lead,” he said lowly, and Charles swallowed roughly, his throat dry. “If you want no kindness, that can be arranged. However, as I sincerely doubt that’s the case, I suggest you take advantage of my generosity. I recall hearing that your home was not a pleasant place to be, Charles. Your mother sold you into slavery, and I would be intrigued if you would rather I treated you worse than your stepfather or stepbrother. I can be much, much worse than they ever were, boy.”

“H—,” Charles stammered, pulse thrumming in his ears. “How did you know about Kurt and Cain?” he asked in a small voice, remembering far too many dark nights when one of them took their resentment out on him. Cain liked to beat Charles the most, as his father spared no mercy for him either, and he clearly needed to take his pain out on someone else, too.

“It’s amazing, the gossip wealthy families circulate.”

Grinding his teeth, Charles frowned. “That’s none of your business,” he declared in a huff.

“On the contrary,” Lehnsherr began, smirking slightly. “Everything about you is my business.” The smirk disappeared, and he leaned even closer to his captive, holding him in place so he couldn’t lean back. Charles was worried his fear and weariness were palpable. “If you don’t want my kindness, then you’ll have none,” he lowed, starting to squeeze the back of Charles’ neck for emphasis, pausing at the boy’s wince. “However. I see no reason to keep you locked up. Until you give me one, of course. Would you prefer to be confined to my cabin? Or perhaps you’d like to be bound again? You’ll find I’m quite skilled with knots.”

“N-no,” Charles said hastily, trying to breathe evenly and wondering how his hands kept managing to find the man’s shirt while he spoke. “No, I—no thank you,” he winced, biting his lip to distract himself from his swell of mixed emotions, among them keen relief.

“I thought not.” Suddenly, the captain was standing to his full height again, and Charles was free of his grip. “Do not question me again, Charles. I may be much less inclined to find you endearing,” he warned, his face once again telling of how unimpressed he was as he turned. “And watch your tongue, boy. Some of my crew acts before they think, and you have quite a mouth on you.”

Charles sensed a double meaning, but obeyed his commend to stop questioning him. Biting his lip again, Charles felt another wave of nausea and leaned against the mast, clutching at his chest. The crew milling about on deck ignored him, as they had been, and he was quietly grateful for that. For a few minutes, he pinched his wrist and wondered what to do with himself before he glanced to the door that led below. Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and walked carefully to the door, letting himself head to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Alles klar?" = Is that clear?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles gets to learn some harder facts about his captor from the ship’s cook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a fairly short update, but you guys have been both helpful and encouraging. I figured giving you something would be worth it. Might I add how startling the kudos on here are? I am so startled. This part is just over 1700 words.

Charles was still unsteady on his feet, despite that the ship had yet to leave the dock; he caught the corner of the entry, catching the cook’s attention in addition. The stocky man looked up from where he was standing over an enormous pot that hardly seemed stable with the rock of the ship, though perhaps that was Charles’ mind exaggerating his situation. The cook—Logan, if Charles remembered correctly—gave him a slow onceover for the second or perhaps third time since they’d met, and waved him over, attention returned to the pot.

“He wasn’t kidding about letting you run around,” Logan observed, sounding impressed as the smaller man made his way over, stumbling slightly. “You’ll get your sea legs soon enough, boy,” the man added gruffly, rolling his shoulders and deftly slicing a potato in his hands.

Unamused, Charles held on as best he could to the thick table beside the stove. A distant part of Charles began to wonder about the safety hazards an open fire presented onboard a ship, but he was more preoccupied with standing upright now that he didn’t have a taller, more accustomed… _chaperone_ , to rely on. “You seem surprised,” he said through gritted teeth, displeased with his latest onset of nausea.

“You don’t really know who you’re dealing with, do you?” Logan asked after a moment, smirking a little as he set a steadying hand on the younger man’s shoulder. He set his knife down and faced Charles properly at the boy’s flat stare. “Knowin’ small towns, I’d say word travels fast. You should know who Captain Lehnsherr is.”

“Of course I know,” Charles countered uneasily, though he hadn’t heard as many stories as others his age. He wasn’t much for gossip, and while he had plenty of friends, he was more interested in academic or political conversation, and despite the captain’s supposed role as protector of their shores, he was only ever brought up in passing. Charles heard most tales of Lehnsherr from Raven, if he were to tell Logan the truth: his younger sister heard the stories of him on her play dates with Katherine, a girl who had come from the colonies only five years ago, her family wealthy from their plantations. The colonies had suited the Pryde family for a time, but they had returned to England for a few years and decided to settle again, permanently.

“Really,” Logan replied with an amused edge to his tone. “And what have you heard of our infamous captain?”

“Well,” Charles began almost uncertainly, but was quick to recover. He wouldn’t be caught ignorant on a ship full of bloody _pirates_. “He’s patrolled our shores for seven years now, since I was a boy of eleven—”

“You’re still a boy,” Logan interrupted disbelievingly, skeptically looking Charles over yet again.

“I am _eighteen_ ,” Charles protested immediately, irate for having to say it more than once in a matter of only a few days. Did he look so much like a mere child?

“Still a boy,” the burly man insisted with a cheeky smirk, and Charles did not resist rolling his eyes and ignoring him in favor of continuing.

“As I was saying: Seven years, but he’s rumored to be young. Looking at him, I admit he’s weathered, but cannot be older than thirty, surely?” he went on, but the cook only flashed him a knowing grin in response. “He was very young when he won this ship of another notorious pirate, but no one seems to know who this mysterious previous captain is. Supposedly, the old crew fled in fear of him,” Charles continued, brow steadily furrowing as he realized how absurd the rumors seem to be. “I’ve heard he kidnaps people and forces them into working his ship, as seems evident enough, if I’m any example,” the young man went on, managing to cross his arms almost petulantly without losing his balance.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Logan began, holding up a thick hand and scowling. “You heard what?”

“You were not forced into labor?” Charles asked, a brow quirked in disbelief.

“Do I look like skin-and-bones Lehnsherr could force me into anything?” Logan countered easily, half amused and half offended.

Charles faltered. “There are more than just physical means of persuasion,” he insisted.

“Charlie,” the cook began, sounded exasperated. “Ain’t a soul on this ship that didn’t come here of their own free will.” Charles’ hot glare made him roll his eyes. “Not counting you, of course.”

“I’m not following.”

“Of course you aren’t.” The cook set his current project—leeks, perhaps—aside and faced Charles again, ignoring his indignant look. “Charlie—”

“I would appreciate if you didn’t call me that,” the boy interrupted.

“Chuck,” Logan offered instead, barely pausing for thought. Charles opened his mouth to protest again, but Logan held up a hand to silence him. The smaller male obeyed, but glared once more. “I’ll tell you about how I got here if you’ll tell me about what else you know,” he offered.

“I,” Charles mumbled uncertainly, gnawing his lower lip thoughtfully. “I’m not sure there’s much else, truthfully. I suppose I’ve also heard he’s terribly fearsome, if any of the rumors or my current experiences are to be believed.”

“He has his moments.” The cook chuckled. “That it?”

“I believe so.”

Logan turned again, picking up his knife to chop up the unidentifiable vegetable in his hands. Charles really did wish he’d spent more time in the kitchen and garden, if only to avoid being uncomfortable looking at mystery food. “I got here off of a ship from the colonies,” he started somewhat tiredly, busying his hands as if restless, the knife swift and exact. “I used to build houses, if you’ll believe it.” Had he met Charles’ eyes, he would have seen just how much he really did. “Wanted to try my hand in the Southern colonies. But they didn’t want me. They didn’t like the way I treated their slaves.”

Charles was uneasy straightaway, shifting uncomfortably toward the doorway, half upon remembering his position and half due to his own feelings regarding slavery. Despite his parents’ readiness to force labor whenever they could, Charles deeply despised the idea of making someone work without just compensation, let alone freedom. He felt suddenly nauseated again, and barely withheld a groan.

“Easy, Chuck. They didn’t like me because I was kind,” Logan assured him, rolling his shoulders and clenching his jaw. “They thought I was too lenient. I didn’t beat anyone when they made a mistake. My projects took longer because I didn’t work them absolutely all day.”

If he had had any energy left for being properly astonished, Charles would have made a bit more of a show of his stunned relief. But as it were, the surprises and drastic changes to his life occurring in a few very short days were already beginning to drain his capacity for disbelief, as much as he made a point of being stubborn. “You… don’t believe in slavery.”

“Of course not,” Logan snapped, sneering slightly, though Charles knew it wasn’t for him more than it was for anyone who thought otherwise. “Honestly, it’s one of the reasons I’m surprised you’re here.”

This did rile Charles enough that he truly scowled, the nausea returning for certain; he faced away, speechless. Logan had said nothing for Lehnsherr’s view on slavery, and it seemed a simple fact that he at least believed in it to some degree, if his own predicament meant anything at all. “…Please go on,” he said after a few long, tense moments fighting down a furious panic.

“I met Lehnsherr at the docks when a shipment of lumber came in from colonies farther north. The trees where I was at the time were completely useless for construction, and it was cheaper for some reason. Anyway, I met him during an auction.” Charles didn’t need to be as terribly intelligent as he was to gather exactly what sort of auction it had been. “A runaway—Armando—was being sold to the highest bidder, with a black eye, a lashed back, and irons on each limb. Lehnsherr bought him, stood up on the platform, and removed his irons right there, in front of the whole crowd. He offered him freedom, and work for pay; a life at sea with better men. Everyone went silent, until I joined them.” He grinned then, a triumphant memory recalled. “Asked him if he took home builders, too. He said, ‘I take anyone that needs me.’ If you want an honorable man, Lehnsherr is him.”

Charles’ mind was on the story, even if in the back it cried out for the minor grammatical error of Logan’s speech. _Lehnsherr is **he** ,_ he corrected him mentally. “He. He freed a slave? In front of colonists?” he asked quietly after a long moment.

“Among other things,” Logan agreed, still grinning, more relaxed again. “Armando is on this ship, by the way. Tall fellow. Agile. He’s survived hell and decided to stay for our insane captain.”

“Might I speak with him?” Charles asked suddenly, eager for more of this story, a story that painted his… captor in an entirely new light. It didn’t spare him what he’d done to Charles, of course, what he was doing, but the young man’s curiosity was piqued.

“At a meal, maybe. Better be wary of what the cap thinks, though.”

The boy huffed, put out by the conflicting personalities this captain seemed to display. “You give him such praise, yet he’s kidnapped me.”

“Bought you.”

“I was _traded_.”

“Armando was traded for money,” Logan countered immediately, shrugging. “Aren’t all purchases a trade of sorts?”

This gave Charles pause. Surely their situations were very different. Charles was compensation. Armando was—an employee. Right? His expression wavered between disbelief and insatiable curiosity, and the cook laughed at the sight of it.

“I,” the young man floundered.

“Shut up and get over here. You ever handled a kitchen knife, Chuck?” Logan said, highly amused but sincere enough.

“No,” Charles admitted. “And please don’t call me ‘Chuck.’” He’d never been called that before, but it was twice as awful as “Charlie.”

“Get over here and quit whining. If you’re gonna help me out down here, you’re gonna do it right.”

The would-be lawyer sighed warily, but nodded in obedience, carefully making his way over to Logan’s side and taking the surely too-big knife he was handed. “I warn you—I’m not often terribly coordinated.”

“I could tell. You’ll be fine.”

Charles shot him something between a frown and a pout, and ended up learning quite quickly the safest and most efficient ways to cut vegetables and salt pork.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles learns a new thing or two relevant to sailing, and finally gets a good look at his new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaaaaaaay, unedited triiiiiiipe. No but seriously, I probably should have this beta’d. ANYONE UP FOR THE TASK? ohgodpleasedon’tkillmeI’msorry I have one fabulous offer so far, but since I'm paranoid (and generally annoyed with myself for various reasons), I'd like another. If you're up to talking to me about it, you can "ask" me on tumblr or message me here. I confess I don't know about messaging on this site. Also, anyone notice who got added to the character list? ;D

“Sean. Sean, get down from there,” the young blonde Charles had met earlier called out, hands on his waist as he squinted up into the sunlight. “I’m serious, Sean, now is not the time!”

“But we sail in a few minutes!” the gangly redhead called down in turn, peering down from over the crow’s nest. “What’s wrong with being up here now, anyway?”

“I need you to help me with the additional sails!”

“I could help.”

Summers jolted, spinning quickly with his fists raised for a split second before he registered the look of astonishment on the newcomer’s face. “Oh. It’s you.” Pausing, he relaxed into his normal, somewhat defensive stance and gave Charles a thorough overlook, frowning slightly. “You don’t look like you can haul much of anything,” he observed skeptically.

Charles scowled in turn, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m stronger than I look,” he protested indignantly. “In any case, the captain set me to task with you, and Logan has insisted I come above deck for some reason.” He glanced up at Cassidy in the crow’s nest, smiling a little as the enthusiastic boy waved down at him. “Ah—hello?” he greeted in returned, waving a little himself.

Summers donned his irritated expression again, returning his attention to his crewmate above. “Goddammit, Sean!”

“You… mentioned that we sail shortly,” Charles remembered uneasily, pressing his lips together. He’d grown just slightly more accustomed to the light rocking of a docked ship. He had no idea what would happen once they really started going. “For France?”

The blonde looked back down at him, only slightly taller. Charles thought he couldn’t be much older than himself, if indeed he wasn’t even younger. “…The captain told you that?”

“Well. Yes,” Charles replied simply, feeling as if the underlying suspicion was unnecessary. It put him more on edge once again.

Grunting, Summers shrugged. “Yes. France,” he answered shortly. “Sean!” he snapped sharply upward.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Christ Almighty, you’re practically my mother, Alex,” Cassidy—Sean—grumbled, already halfway down. “What are you going to do when we run into another ship just around the bay, huh? It ‘ll be all your fault that no one saw it coming when someone could have been on high.”

“Oh, you’ll be ‘on high’ when I’m through with you. You do know what that’s supposed to mean, right?” Summers—Alex—muttered grudgingly, punching the taller boy in the shoulder as his feet hit the deck. Sean whined, rubbing his arm and kicking halfheartedly at his attacker’s shin, and Charles wondered if he really was the oldest amongst them after all.

“I hate to interrupt,” Charles cut in smoothly, smiling nervously. “But I. I feel a bit… uneasy, without something to do,” he confessed. If he had no books to pore over and no parchment to fill with his thoughts, he became somewhat idle. It was one of the reasons he’d taken to trying to be helpful around the manor back on land.

The boys paused and looked to Charles as if they’d forgotten he’d been standing there. Exchanging looks, Alex and Sean collected themselves, the latter shuffling his feet in embarrassment. The brunette could only smile beseechingly, hoping he hadn’t interrupted some kind of ritual between them. Neither had yet to show signs of a temper like the captain’s, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Sorry. Do you know any knots, Xavier?” Alex asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest and watching him thoughtfully. When Charles shook his head, the blonde rolled his eyes and sighed, nudging Sean with an elbow. The taller boy literally hopped off, disappearing behind a couple of barrels. When he emerged again, passing Alex a bundle of slightly frayed ropes, he said, “Then you’ll learn. Knots are almost the key to survival on a ship. Without knots, there’s no reliable way to keep moving on the water. Understand?”

Even as he nodded, Charles couldn’t help hearing the same question repeated in German in his mind, the voice much more mature. “…Actually, Alex, I may have lied,” he admitted for a moment. “Though I’m only assuming you mean because knots keep the sails?”

“Among everything else, yes,” the stocky boy agreed, nodding in approval. “We’re going to get started on the important ones, all right? Like the hitches.” He walked to the barrels Sean had emerged from, and gestured vaguely for Charles to join him, holding out lengths of rope for him to work with. “I hope you’re a quick learner.”

Alex seemed pleased when Charles smiled at that.

-

It could not have been more than twenty minutes later when a sudden commotion on deck drew the two young men’s attention from their knots. Alex’s relaxed expression turned to something more determined, and he got up without a word, darting to the first mast and waving an arm for Charles to follow. Confused and curious, Charles was quick to his feet, following his direction to stand at the other side of the mast. Alex pointed upward with his arm, blocking out the sunlight with his free hand.

Replicating the motion, Charles could see Sean leaning over the crow’s nest with a bundle of much thicker rope in his arms, grinning down at them as if he held secrets within the woven lines. Without much warning, he dropped the bundles, and two heavy ropes fell; Charles nearly fell back as he dodged a coarse cord that came awfully close to his face, but he grabbed it up as Alex grabbed his, and waited uncertainly for some kind of instruction. He nearly shrieked when a familiar voice rose nearby.

“Weigh anchor!” Captain Lehnserr shouted, not ten feet away. “It’s high time we set sail!”

Dressed in much more than he’d been wearing before, the German captain turned and almost leapt up the steps to the wheel, boots heavy and stride long. A woman—the lovely blonde Charles vaguely recalled seeing for a moment in a doorway—shouted similar orders, already at the helm. For a moment, Charles thought he was in one of his stories, the novels he dared to partake in late at night when his candles had nearly gone out. There was something beautiful in the captain’s confident stance, looking out to sea, hat tipped against the breeze and scarlet coat ragged but clean. The woman was dressed similarly, but her coat was a softer ivory. Perhaps it had once been white.

“Xavier!”

“What?” Charles yelped dazedly when Alex seemed to call his name for the second or third time. “I apologize, what did you say?” he repeated almost sheepishly, though he echoed some of the urgency he’d heard.

“Bowline, over that peg,” Alex said impatiently, already done with his at his end.

Smiling awkwardly, the brunette took a few moments to ensure the tie was right before he checked it over, Alex at his side to inspect it in turn. He smiled with relief when the young man clapped him on the back in approval.

“Good. Now watch your head,” Alex warned absently, stepping away to the edge of the ship as the deck seemed to suddenly sway under Charles’ feet.

“What?” he repeated, before another startled yelp escaped him and he stumbled back into the mast clumsily.

Sean straightened from his landing crouch and grinned at him. “To France!” he announced excitedly, over at Alex’s side a moment later.

Deciding he’d be at far less risk of falling overboard when he was attached to the mast, Charles stayed put, grudgingly taking in the view as the ship pushed past the line of the bay and out into open water. It was a perfect day, the sky more blue than he’d seen it all season, the waves deceptively gentle and the breeze light and salty. It was ironic how soothing it all seemed when he knew it was all just a death trap waiting to ensnare him in freezing depths. Wincing, he shut his eyes a moment and slid down to the deck, sitting against the mast and bringing his knees closer. The crew didn’t seem to mind him, going about their own business while the would-be lawyer ended up closing his eyes and pinching his wrist after a few minutes.

Eventually, someone nudged him, and he peeked up cautiously to see Logan leaning against the mast above him offering a look that read somewhere between amusement and confusion. “I understand you ain’t got your sea-legs yet, Charlie, but you look ridiculous sitting there like a frightened little boy,” the burly man offered with a small chuckle. “Get up, come on. It’s a nice day.”

Charles debated shaking his head stubbornly and curling up into a smaller form, but decided instead to frown and carefully push himself up to his feet, using the mast for balance. “This… isn’t so awful,” he resolved halfheartedly. He wobbled slightly, but Logan offered an arm outward, and he was happy to take it for a long moment. “Will it get much worse?” he asked in a small voice, dreading the answer.

Logan only laughed at him. “You’re adorable, Charlie. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I’d rather they never did,” he protested, hoping his frown was less of a pout than it apparently usually was.

“Look out there,” Logan said quietly, leaning over the edge once they’d gotten close enough. Charles felt queasy once again, made worse by the embarrassing realization that he was just walked to the railing like a frail old man. “It’s fucking _beautiful_.”

The awe in Logan’s voice gave him just the right amount of curiosity to properly grab the rail and cling for dear life so that he could enjoy the view unhindered. Charles felt some of his seasickness washed away by the brilliant gleam of the sun on the water, the expanse of blue above them that seemed to stretch on in a cloudless sky. “…Oh,” he murmured absently, caught up in the sight.

“Enjoying the view?”

Charles, rather adamantly, did not squeak at the man’s voice almost directly behind him, but he did his best to grip the faded wooden rail before him to keep from jolting into the ocean. “…Yes,” he admitted uncertainly, not daring to turn his head yet.

“It’s good to see you on your feet,” Lehnsherr commented steadily, coming up to the railing at his side, holding it awfully close to Charles’ left hand. “How is the nausea?”

“It’s… all right, sir,” Charles allowed, wondering why the captain sounded so at ease, if not cautious himself. “I haven’t seen the sky like this since last year.”

“It’s come to welcome you,” mused the ginger man, smirking when Charles glanced sideways, “ushering you into a new life.” And with that, he turned again, shouting at someone and moving back up to the helm, where the lovely blonde woman was steering the _Freiheit_. Charles watched him go with a furrowed brow, lips pressed together in thought. Where had the intimidating, brutal man gone, the man that had dragged him here in the first place? Who was this calm commander with the clever smirk?

Charles didn’t dare let himself trust this man any more than he did the man that took him from his home. Logan may have good things to say, but he was still an unwilling captive. He was still a possession by all counts. He would not be fooled by this lull in ferocity, even if he did look admirable in his hat and boots, standing next to who Charles assumed was his second in command. Even if he did look to him from above with something like his own curiosity, Charles was not going to be lulled into any sense of security.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has his first meal on board the ship, but the captain disapproves of his location.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This somehow got longer than I thought it would be. I don't know what you're all doing here, but thanks for coming back. Here's the next installment, and I welcome your wonderful commentary and anything else you might have to say. Enjoy!

It was a relief, really, to be below deck again, even if he had been crowded into the open dining area to get himself his supper. The crew seemed to take their meals in shifts, and Charles was delighted to find that both Sean and Alex took their meals the first shift. He trailed after them quietly, grabbing the table edge as he carefully climbed onto the bench between them, bowl in hand. He’d declined the offer for beer, familiar with alcohol, but distrusting on such an untrustworthy stomach. The stew was good, certainly nothing like he’d been eating back home, but something of a comfort when he was surrounded by many he’d still had yet to meet on a ship he’d never wanted to board.

“Well done with the knots, by the way,” Alex commented after he drank down half of his broth. “It’s nice to teach someone capable of rational thought.”

“Hey,” Sean protested, leaning forward to look past Charles and shoot his companion an offended glare. “Why are you such an ass?”

“Why are you such an idiot?” Alex shot back with a smirk.

So went the banter between the two boys as Charles minded his own business and ate his supper. He was happy to now know they were both about his age, though Sean was a year younger. He didn’t dare ask about their parents or how they came to crew a notorious pirate ship, not when Logan had said such… thought-provoking things about the crewmembers. _There’s always more to the way things seem,_ he thought as he finished his bowl, sated and much calmer than he’d been in hours. _First and perhaps second  impressions aside,_ he added internally, smiling faintly at the bickering friends. But did this apply to men who had stripped away everything he’d ever known?

 _Speak of the devil,_ he thought drily as he set his bowl down to look up and see the captain standing across from him, behind some nameless, scarred man with scraggly blonde hair. The boy froze a moment, uncertain of what to do when the lean pirate only stood and stared at him expectantly. “May I help you?” he asked hesitantly after a few more painful moments of silence. This seemed to draw Sean and Alex from their playful argument, and the boys exchanged glances before straightening in their seats and watching Lehnsherr dutifully.

“I take it you’ve been kept busy?” the captain asked of him smoothly, quirking a brow and glancing meaningfully to Alex before his gaze flickered beyond Charles to something behind him.

Charles nodded slowly. Lehnsherr stared again, and after a moment, Charles hastily blurted, “Yes, sir.”

“He’s doing really well,” Alex said beseechingly. “He memorized ten knots in as many minutes,” the blonde praised, smirking a little proudly.

Charles felt some of the tension leave his shoulders for all the commendation he was being issued. He hoped it would quell that severe gaze. Where had the admirable man gone, the man that had directed the ship from the bay and further out onto the waters? Here was surely the same man that had held him to the dirt in the street and made him shake with unfamiliar fear.

“Is that so?” the ginger asked, smirking the slightest bit and leveling Alex with the same look. The blonde nodded confidently, and the captain seemed appeased, smirk widening. “Then I don’t suppose you had time to think about where you ought to be during this hour,” he allowed lightly, chameleon eyes on the would-be lawyer once more.

Charles gaped, panic in his chest as his thoughts scrambled for an answer. Clearly the captain was implying something, likely something to do with Charles having either disobeyed or made a mistake. He was supposed to know where to be “at this hour.” Did he mean supper? Or was it literally the hour, which Charles could not discern without his pocket watch or the light of the sun. The boy was getting so caught up in his inner terror that he was only awakened by a nudge from Sean, who added a worried look to the action.

“I’m sorry?” Charles offered uncertainly, staring at the captain nervously and trying not to frown with the growing indignation edging at his thoughts. The captain hadn’t said a word about scheduling, how was he supposed to know?

“Get up,” Lehnsherr said simply, turning to walk around the table. The crewmembers around him pretended not to watch, but they had clearly attracted some attention. Perhaps the captain didn’t dine with them often. Or, more likely, it was the novelty of the newcomer and their captain interacting. Charles felt his face warm, and he obeyed, clutching the table’s edge once more to keep from stumbling as he hastily removed himself from the stationary bench. The older man stopped before him, and Charles instinctively dropped his head to look at the man’s shoes. _Fine boots,_ he thought absently, _very handsome, quite fitting_. He barely flinched when a hand rested on his shoulder.

“You are to join me in my cabin for meals, Xavier,” the captain said easily, tone deceptively friendly. “I’m aware I did not alert you sooner. That was my mistake. Now you know.”

Well, he’d certainly not been expecting any kind of apology, that was for certain. The captain had admitted to a blunder. From the looks of the nearby crew and their blank stares, it wasn’t a common occurrence. Charles composed himself quickly, keeping his eyes low lest he be accused of defiance where there was none.

“Of course,” he eventually decided to say, thinking it was perhaps the safest thing he could offer at the moment. Lehnsherr seemed to be waiting for something else, and Charles glanced up to him carefully. “…Am I to come with you now, captain?” he asked after a moment of realization.

“That was indeed the goal,” the taller man said drily, smirking again. “Come along, Xavier,” he said smoothly, turning on his heel and heading up the stairs to the deck.

Startled by the half dismissal, the boy started quickly after him, face flushed for the attention that had seemed to accumulate the longer the two stood before the meal’s congregation.

He stumbled upon reaching the deck, and a short, startled gasp escaped him when Lehnsherr was suddenly at his side, catching his elbow and watching him with a quirked brow. The man said nothing as he waited for Charles to right himself, and was content to move onward toward his own cabin again. Charles frowned indignantly and hurried after him once more, stepping down carefully into the captain’s cabin, holding onto the doorframe for the hundredth time. He found the heady aroma of the night’s stew once more overwhelming his senses, and watched as Lehnsherr sat himself at one end of the oblong table nearer the back of the cabin. The boy almost blushed at the sight of a waiting bowl and piece of bread at the opposite end—his place at the table.

Charles wondered for a moment if the pirate had been waiting for him, as his own meal was seemingly untouched. It was just another mental strike to the list of things driving him mad about this man. Since when did a master wait for his slave to start taking his food?

Deciding he wasn’t going to feel guilty when he hadn’t been told to be here in the first place, Charles went to what he assumed was his seat and sat down slowly. He was a little embarrassed, if only because the ginger was watching him expectantly, now appearing almost bored. He fidgeted, feeling caught like a fish in a net soon to be hoisted aboard some bizarre contraption foreign to the world he knew…

 _Perhaps my metaphors should be less literal,_ he decided grudgingly, glancing up to the sharp-eyed man across from him.

“I assume that you have eaten,” the captain said simply, leaning with one elbow onto the table.

“Yes,” Charles replied stiffly, caught by the captain’s gaze this time.

“All right. Then you will wait while I take my own meal,” Lehnsherr went on smoothly, sitting back just slightly to dip his bread in his stew and proceed to eat in silence.

Charles frowned faintly, distantly annoyed that he was forced to remain idle in the wake of an honest mistake. When it seemed as if the captain was halfway through his supper, Charles swallowed his nervousness and forced himself to still his fidgeting in favor of speaking up. “What shall I do with this food?” he asked quickly, hoping the rules that had been set could be bent every once in a while. The man was eerily quiet when he ate, and hadn’t spoken a word since he started. Charles didn’t think he could wait until the captain spoke to him first. Much to the would-be lawyer’s relief, Lehnsherr looked up to him with a dull gaze and lowered his spoon instead of ignoring or outright reprimanding him.

“It will be saved for the next shift. Someone else will eat it,” answered the thin man curtly, jaw tightening a moment. “What did you expect?”

But Charles was relieved, biting back a small smile. “I only hoped that was the case, sir. I wouldn’t want it to go to waste,” he admitted, keeping his voice and eyes level, testing the waters of the captain’s patience.

Lehnsherr sat up straighter, quirking a brow. “There is nothing wasted on this ship,” he informed the boy evenly. “Not food nor labor nor spoils,” he added, smirking. Naturally, this piqued Charles’ curiosity, but the captain went on before he could ask. “You’ll find that few want for much on this ship,” Lehnsherr said ominously.

Charles meant to nod and fall back into as patient a silence as he could muster, but something else occurred to him first, and he couldn’t stop himself. “Where is your first mate?” he blurted, blinking dumbly once he realized he’d said it aloud. The boy promptly pressed his lips together, wary of an annoyed response and the looming threat of some kind of punishment.

“Frost enjoys her meals with my other officers,” Lehnsherr answered simply, returning to the last of his meal without additional comment.

 _The lovely blonde woman,_ he noted in his head. It was curious, however, considering the classical idea that women were bad luck on a ship. Or were they? He had heard the tales of the ferocious Anne Bonny and Mary Read, notorious for their success as pirates. Charles had no reason to believe women were any less terrifying than men brandishing rapiers and demanding your goods, after all. He did often enjoy the stories he heard of sailors that came into the harbor before they set off for the Caribbean after being robbed blind on their way home. One sailor had been eyewitness to Anne gutting a crewmate through for refusing the keys to the cargo. For a brief moment, Charles imagined First Mate Frost was equally merciless, a terrible beauty with a blade.

“Oh,” Charles said quietly after a long pause for thought. “You eat alone?” he asked carefully, aware he’d disturbed the captain’s supper several times already.

“Not anymore.”

The German rose, finished at last, and examined the brunette with a stern gaze. He waited for a moment, before Charles realized he was to stand as well. The boy was quick to his feet again, and waited uncertainly for some sort of instruction. He was momentarily proud for his ability to stay standing without swaying severely with the rock of the ship. His grip on the table’s edge might have been a help.

“Take the food to Summers,” Lehnsherr instructed simply. “He’ll be on the port bough. He tends to take his meals on the second shift. Not tonight,” he explained. “When you’ve finished, report here to me.”

The young man gritted his teeth a moment, feeling much like a child with simple, mindless tasks beset to him just to keep him out of the adults’ way. But he nodded stiffly, carefully taking the bowl and bread before he stepped toward the cabin door. “…But Alex has already eaten. I’ve just dined with him,” he said hesitantly, once it dawned on him the name of his recipient.

“His brother, Charles. Scott Summers. Ask for him, though he’s likely to be the only man there,” the captain offered shortly, pushing his dishes aside to lift a compass and piece of parchment. “…Go,” he prompted with a raised brow when the boy only stared.

“Oh. Right,” Charles muttered, quickly maneuvering the door open and hoping he wouldn’t misstep on his way to Alex’s brother. He had to wonder how brothers ended up on the same ship, but perhaps it wasn’t so unheard of. _Family business, perhaps,_ he mused as he reached the deck safely, wondering if port was left or right.

Lehnsherr sighed to himself, rubbing his face tiredly and shaking his head. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d gotten himself into after all. The boy was nothing like the other crewmembers, and was certainly a child when it came to experience. But he assembled his maps without another worry. The boy would be fine. He’d make sure of it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles gets more answers he can't piece together, and keeps up his useless backtalk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, lovelies. Thank you all for sticking around. I love your comments, and am continually startled by the kudos. Proper action is on its way. Your patience will be its own reward. ;D

Charles eventually managed to remember that “port” meant “left” on a ship, if only because he’d remembered one of the stories he’d overheard. The sailor had been very enthusiastic with his hands, and while the boy couldn’t necessarily trust the man’s education, he was very consistent with which hand flew upward at “port” or “starboard.” Wary of his footing, Charles moved carefully up the steps to the bow—a word he did remember well—and blinked at the sight of a tall man perched atop a set of flat crates right at the edge of the ship’s rail. When the man turned, bespectacled in a strange shade of brown—or perhaps it was red?—he frowned at Charles’ approach.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with the captain?” he asked, not unkindly, but almost suspicious. “You could get in trouble, coming up here.”

“I’ve brought you supper,” the would-be lawyer answered uncertainly, holding the bowl and bread out to the unusual pirate. Upon closer inspection, he decided this man did resemble Alex, and seemed just a bit familiar.

Scott took the offered food with a smile, seemingly relieved. “Thank you,” he said simply, immediately taking a bite of the bread.

“I saw you when I boarded,” Charles said thoughtlessly, the brief image coming to him again. Hadn’t he been standing with Logan?

“I think you saw everyone when you boarded,” Scott mused, smirking as he took a gulp of the stew’s broth. “Lieutenant Azazel mentioned a newcomer. We were surprised, really, when…” But he trailed off, smirk falling completely. He looked away as he scooped a real bite from his bowl, leaving his words hanging.

Charles would not be dismissed so plainly. “Surprised when what?” he pressed, frowning slightly and gripping the railing at a steadily angling rock of the ship. Would it be too much to ask that they would get far enough out to sea to avoid such sudden movements on a calm day? He was quite sure that nearly a full day of sailing would be enough.

Scott frowned in turn, lowering his bowl to rest in his lap as he met Charles’ eye cautiously. “When you weren’t exactly a typical recruit,” he relinquished quietly, as if saying it was a crime he was only so willing to admit. He sighed when Charles frowned deeper. “What?”

“Go on,” the younger man insisted, crossing his arms like his father used to when he knew his son wasn’t telling him everything. “Why aren’t I ‘typical,’ then?”

“I don’t think I can explain,” Scott said firmly. “Other than the fact that you don’t exactly look like a boy built to sail, let alone a pirate.”

“I’m _not_ a pirate,” Charles hissed in agreement, gritting his teeth. “I never wanted to leave land, and I certainly don’t plan on becoming a criminal.”

“I think that was evident by the captain’s explanation,” Scott said pointedly, eyebrows raised.

“And is it so typical to have him bring aboard slaves, then?” he snapped without hesitation. To his genuine surprise, Scott seemed flabbergasted. “…What?” Charles went on uncertainly, tone still effectively defensive.

“It isn’t,” the pirate answered simply, as if the actions of his captain had only just hit him. “He’s…,” he began carefully, brow furrowing as he looked the smaller male up and down. “You spoke to Logan, right?” Charles nodded, and Scott grunted, even more perplexed. “Then you understand that no one here is unwilling to be here?”

A flare of indignant anger rose in Charles’ throat, quashed by the heavy sincerity in both Logan and now Scott’s words. Why only him? Why would a captain with freed slaves as part of his crew claim a new one, especially one with no experience and little physical prowess? He couldn’t be angry with the crew of course. They didn’t have a hand in his capture, after all, and apparently weren’t going to hurt him if their captain told them not to. It did seem that the men he’d met so far were loyal to Lehnsherr, and kind enough to leave Charles be, outlaws and miscreants though they were. What was he to take away from all of this information? How was he to understand?

“Then why am I here?” Charles lowed, more defeat in his tone than heat. A twisting in his chest made him long for home. He wanted to see Raven again. He wanted to be on firm ground with no eerie foreigner breathing down his back and holding him hostage. He wanted his freedom.

“I don’t know,” Scott answered after a moment’s pause for thought, voice soft and sympathetic.

Charles watched him for a long minute, through the man’s dark spectacles and what may or may not be false manner. “I must return to the captain,” he said stiffly, turning on his heel with a tight posture even as he held the rail his whole way back down the stairs to the main deck. Scott didn’t get a word in edgewise before the boy was out of sight again.

-

The captain looked up with a scowl as the door to his cabin slammed shut. He stood to his full height as the would-be lawyer descended the short stairs, scowling for all he was worth. Setting his pen down and topping his ink bottle, he quirked a brow at Charles when the boy paused, standing only a few meters away. His expression seemed to melt under Erik’s gaze, and Charles turned his face to the windows, either distracted by the coming night or avoiding his captain’s gaze. Erik didn’t honestly care which.

“Look at me,” he instructed simply, even and unimpressed. Reluctantly, Charles turned his attention back to him, gaze wary. “Did you have a nice conversation with Summers?” he asked, eyes never leaving Charles’. Something flickered in the boy’s bright blues, and Erik knew he’d caught him.

“I beg your pardon, captain?” Charles asked innocently enough, eyes widening with either deliberate intention to appear surprised, or unconscious panic.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to stop and talk with him. Though I trust he was polite and did not ignore your questions?” Did Charles think he could escape his own obviousness? The brunette pressed his lips together and glanced to the floor. Erik found himself smirking faintly.

“I apologize. It’s difficult to keep from conversation when I’m offered little in certain company…,” Charles replied with impressive nonchalance. “Sir,” he added, as if it were a burdensome afterthought.

Narrowing his gaze, the German approached his captive with an elegant haste, startling the little Englishman into taking a few steps back. Catching the back of Charles’ neck, he dragged him closer again, ignoring the press of his hands at his chest and the panic in his face as he refused to meet his eye. He could feel his heart quicken, the vein under his thumb pulsing faster for every second the two were close. It was satisfying to remind someone of whom he should fear, even when it wasn’t truly the end goal.

“Expecting conversation from me might disappoint you,” he said, inches from the boy’s ear. “And I suggest you get very used to disappointment. You will expect nothing from me, _verstehest du?_ You will learn exactly what you will receive and what will be taken from you, Xavier. I am more than happy to take your voice and your smart words, just to start,” the captain lowed meaningfully, allowing the boy to imagine the many ways he could accomplish such. His threats had yet to be empty, after all.

Releasing him, Erik turned from Charles in favor of returning to his maps and letters, laid out across his wide table. The boy staggered without the support of Erik’s force, but caught himself on the edge of the table, trembling for only a few moments before composing himself once again. Charles stood still, hands in fists at his sides as he stared at the cabin floor uncertainly. The German didn’t bother to speak to him for several minutes, finishing up his letter to a fellow captain before he set his pen down once again.

“You may sit,” he informed the brunette smoothly, nodding to the chair Charles had been sitting in during supper. Shuffling to the seat, the young man lowered himself carefully, taking a moment to decide what to do with his hands before he clasped them tightly in his lap.

“May I speak, captain?” the boy asked grudgingly, lips pursed as he looked to the captain at last.

“No,” Erik said simply, rolling up maps and ignoring him again. Charles seemed startled and offended, but pressed his lips into a thin, impatient line anyway, reluctant to earn the captain’s wrath over something so small. Once he’d placed his maps and letters on the shelves behind him, the captain returned his attention to his captive, sitting and leaning onto the table. “Now… you may speak,” he allowed.

“I’m not going to apologize for speaking to Scott,” Charles blurted, earning a raised brow from the ginger watching him. “But I—I’m sorry for my behavior, sir,” he went on resentfully. It was very clearly insincere, but Erik nodded once and motioned the boy toward the bed he’d prepared for him.

“Continue to watch your tongue, Xavier,” he murmured idly. “Now prepare for rest. A ship rises early,” Erik went on, moving from his seat to a wardrobe and looking to his captive again. Charles was looking at his bed and the case upon it before he glanced to Erik’s coat distrustfully, nervous. Erik stared at him until his gaze seemed to affect the boy’s mind, calling his attention once again. “Come here,” he instructed almost tiredly.

For once, Charles did not hesitate, instead on his feet before his captain in mere moments. Erik was quietly impressed as he tipped the boy’s chin up. “If I wanted you to undress me, you would know,” he lowed, thoughtfully taking in the boy’s appearance once again, his increasingly familiar _caught_ look. “However, I am capable of dressing and undressing myself, just as you seem to be. Do not dally any longer, boy,” he said meaningfully, moving away to remove his coat as Charles recovered.

-

Charles was quick to remove his layers, leaving only the basest of clothes to sleep in. He didn’t trust anyone on this ship enough to remove his breeches, especially not after the captain’s previous displays of… physical capability. Whether or not he’d claimed disinterest, the would-be lawyer was continually unsure of Lehnsherr’s strange intensity and his propensity to hold him close. He was quite certain the captain was never denied a partner, but why would he go looking for one when he now had a smaller, weaker slave to use, should he find interest? Charles knew the stories of catamites and pederasts in exotic lands, and even in the underbelly of cities like London. He may not have been a child, but Charles was young, and he was quite certain his size would be taken advantage of. Perhaps it would someday be a punishment for all his defiance. He shuddered at the thought.

His brief concerns were put to rest when the captain simply passed him, inches away, and settled upon his own bed, larger and likely stuffed with goose down. Charles made not a sound, and instead pulled back the blanket laid out for him.

“The lamps,” the captain said lightly, still sitting up, just barely under his sheets.

Charles blinked, turning to look at the oil lamps set about throughout the cabin. Silently, he went to the farthest one, near the steps, and turned it out, working his way to his bed once again, ignoring the German’s gaze. Once the cabin was lit only by the moonlight through the windows, Charles carefully found his bed and tucked himself beneath the blanket, curling into himself as he faced the wall. The rocking of the ship was soothing now, as if he were a babe again.

Silence was impossible, of course, when out at sea, but the creaking and groaning of the ship was quieter than Charles imagined it might be in the dark, and it was not long before he could hear the steady, long breaths of sleep from his captor. He soon found the mockery of a lullaby to send him off as well, and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles seems to be settling in with startling complacency, and Captain Lehnsherr doesn't so much seem to mind the new routine himself, even if Charles' mouth continues to grate on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely azryal once again. Your input is fantastic, darling, and I can't thank you enough. Lots more of Erik's point of view this time. As a bonus, prepare for some action in the near future.

Charles had lost count of the days, but surely it could not have been more than a week that they had spent at sea. He didn’t dare ask any of the crew, not even Sean, Alex, or Logan, the three most companionable people he’d encountered so far. Neither his irrational fear of drowning nor his much more reasonable fear of being beaten – or worse – had been met with any reality yet. Certainly, the captain was happy to haul him about like a sack of potatoes despite his nervous protest, but aside from a few instances where he was grabbed and had the captain growl in his ear, the voyage was almost…

Pleasant.

He’d be loath to confess such a thought to anyone, of course, being as he was still a much-announced unwilling crew member. He had made careful friends with the young men aboard, and Logan was almost protective of him. He’d even offered to teach Charles how to use a broadsword, before he laughed at the thought of what Captain Lehnsherr would do to him if he started teaching a scrawny boy to wield a heavy blade.

“I could do it,” Charles had protested in mild offense, frowning as he grudgingly dropped more potatoes into the enormous stew pot.

“Can you even get yourself up the rigging yet?” Logan had asked with a cheeky grin, shaking his head at him.

“Then teach me something useful. This is a pirate ship, isn’t it? What happens to me if— _when_ —you lot raid some poor, unsuspecting vessel?”

“You hide, Charlie. You hide.”

“I’m not—I’m not a child, I’m not going to hide just because I’m,” he’d begun, hesitating over his next words.

“Small and thin and almost completely unskilled?”

“I have skills, Logan, just not—”

“Not the sort that’s useful on a ship, boy,” Logan had reminded him sternly. “No reason to let you get killed just because ya think you have to prove something.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to a bunch of thieves and scoundrels,” Charles had muttered to himself, scowling.

“Aw, Charlie. You talk as if ya aren’t one of us already.” Logan had only grinned again at Charles’ disbelief.

The cook’s words rang through the front of his mind as he cautiously leaned over the edge of the railing, staring down at the lap of the waves against the sides of the ship. He did this on occasion, before supper, mostly, to ground himself. The irony was not lost on him as he relied on the slosh of salt water and the cool breeze to center his infuriatingly diminishing panic, the horror of his new life. He never asked for this. He didn’t particularly want to be here, but the desire to set foot back on sturdy land had strangely begun to fade. It wasn’t being out at sea that bothered him so much, if he convinced himself that he was only on a very strange holiday and would return home to complete his schooling and become exactly what he had always planned to be.

Charles had only just made himself comfortable, flopped on his folded arms atop the rail, when someone joined him at his side, inches from his hip. He was used to this unusual greeting by now, and carefully stood upright, holding the elegantly carved wood in a tight grip as he continued to watch the water. Silence stretched on for a painful minute before the young man opened his mouth to say very simply, “Captain.”

“It’s only a matter of time until we meet the Spanish, Charles,” the German informed him easily, leaning onto the rail only when Charles spoke. “My crew is excited for a chance to draw their swords again. It has been nearly a month since they last had the chance.”

Bristling slightly, Charles imagined the men and women he’d met and somehow come to enjoy the company of cutting down faceless men in uniform. He grimaced and dug his nails into the rail beneath his hands. How could he have forgotten the nature of the company he’d been keeping? How could he have blindly believed for even a moment that they might only be sailors and tradesmen out to acquire new supply? It was far too easy to picture Lehnsherr and his first mate with bloodied blades, leading a charge on some startled crew of Spanish merchants; men not much unlike Charles himself would be murdered all for the sake of cargo that may not even be valuable.

“Ill again?” Lehnsherr asked with a wary sigh, and Charles looked up to him uncertainly. “You’re pale as death, boy. I’d thought you’d overcome your seasickness by now.”

“I can’t be rid of it so easily,” Charles protested with a scowl, glad to have this small distraction coupling with a misinterpretation. “I’ll be all right.”

“Good. Supper is nearly on,” the captain said, gazing back out at the approaching sunset. “I expect you to attend.”

 _When have I had any other choice?_ Charles wondered silently, pressing his lips together to avoid saying something that might earn him a powerful grip in his hair. “Yes, captain,” he managed to say evenly after a moment to collect himself.

Lehnsherr nodded, gone from his side in the blink of an eye. Charles allowed himself to glance back, catch the sway of his coat, the strength in his shoulders, pride in his step. He wondered how he’d had the audacity to challenge him before when the man looked formidable even from the back.

-

Erik found it very easy to form routine with his new addition. The Xavier boy might not have come aboard a practiced worker, but he adapted very well, and the crew received him readily. The trouble he’d anticipated from them upon seeing the boy’s face was seemingly imagined. Not even Victor had strayed too close to Charles, and the man was honestly notorious for his lack of self-control. Erik was sure that the little would-be lawyer had not even seen the man’s face. Perhaps Victor could be fully trusted to behave himself after all.

Part of his new routine consisted of the supper he and Charles shared every night. The solitude he’d been accustomed to was ripped away nearly overnight, but the captain could hardly find flaw. Of course, Charles asked questions when he had the gall to speak up, and Erik was quite kind, frankly, to remind him of how he should be addressed. It was entirely satisfying to hear the tightness in the young man’s voice when he repeated his words and added a grudging _“sir”_ to the end of his sentences.

He sat in his chair without looking to the Xavier boy, knowing he’d wait for the pirate to be seated before he’d carefully sit himself down. Charles did not rush with his food, and Erik was genuinely surprised with the care he always took in eating. In his experience, those who had grown up in a wealthy home did not truly appreciate the food put before them, and either devoured dishes in minutes or deliberately spent time talking and allowing their food to grow cold and wasted on their plates. True, he’d spent many a meal wolfing down what he could get, but with knowledge came appreciation. How nice to know the boy was appreciative of his food, of all things.

“Is it always the Spanish, captain?” Charles asked after he’d cleaned his bowl, setting his spoon aside carefully, eyes on the table.

“No,” Erik answered lightly. “We’ve stumbled across the French and the Dutch before, in these waters,” he informed him. The information was not a secret, really, not if the boy ever listened to rumor. “Germans, on rare occasion. It is not until we reach Southern waters that we meet many others.”

Charles seemed surprised by this amount of freely given material. He raised his gaze to Erik’s and promptly fell silent, caught staring as the captain blinked dully at him. Erik took this time to once again marvel at the blue of his captive’s eyes, impossibly similar to the sea. The boy’s mouth shut as he lowered his gaze once again, fidgeting in his seat.

“Are they merchants?” Charles asked with some hope in his voice, and Erik purposely ignored him, finishing his soup and setting his bowl aside neatly. Frustrated, Charles moved his hands to his thighs and gripped at his trousers. “ _Sir_ ,” he added through his teeth.

“The ship we may meet is likely to be a trade ship, yes,” the captain allowed with a nod, rising from his seat. Xavier scrambled to do the same, holding the short back of his chair and watching the taller man warily. Erik quirked a brow at him before pushing his chair in and turning to his shelves. “Its course would bring it to London. Cloth and Italian coffee, for the most part. For Englishmen, Londoners seem fond of the stuff.”

“You’ll kill the crew.”

This gave Erik pause, not because it was particularly true or untrue, but because Charles sounded absolutely certain. Erik took the map he’d been looking for and turned to issue the brunette an unimpressed stare. Charles visibly shrank back, jaw tightening with unease as he gripped the chair’s back tightly, anticipating something more than the captain was in the mood to give.

“Perhaps,” he answered ominously, more to watch the boy squirm than to confirm his suspicion. “Resistance will be met with coercion. You would not know my name if we never used force, Xavier,” he went on gravely, setting the map down and glancing pointedly to their supper dishes.

Charles nearly stumbled as he quickly moved into action, scooping up the bowls and stacking them together, the spoons clinking as they fell against each other. He didn’t meet the captain’s eyes this time, ducking his head as he moved just as quickly to the cabin door to return the dishes to the kitchen.

Taking his time to set out his maps again, the German was just connecting routes with a scrape of his pen when the young man returned. Silent again, Charles waited uneasily at the table’s edge, as he did every night, awaiting further orders or instruction before he could be dismissed to assist on deck. Erik let him stand there to watch for quite some time, rolling up his maps at last before acknowledging Charles again. The Englishman was fiddling with his trousers again, dragging them up at his thighs for a moment before dropping them, over and over. He seemed startled when he realized the captain was now paying attention. It was truly sinful, the way he licked his lips as he met Erik’s eye.

“Y-yes, sir?” he asked worriedly, lips pressed together now. He might have caught on to Erik’s line of sight, considering how determined he seemed to be to hide his lips now.

“You may sit, Charles,” Erik said quietly, stepping past him to get to his trunk at the edge of his bed; the boy flinched as he passed, expecting some kind of reprimand, though Erik could see no reason for one. “You’ve done well,” he assured him simply, crouching to open the chest and pull out a set of garments he’d never been certain he’d see worn again. They were buried under much of his current clothing, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. He was tempted to hold the bundle to his face, to breathe it in one last time—his past, a memory that had faded cruelly over the years—but he needed rid of it as much as Xavier needed more to wear.

Rising, he looked to the young man, seated on his bed and eying the captain with a thoughtful, furrowed brow. He carefully schooled his expression to neutral upon seeing the man’s smirk, and clutched at his trousers again.

 “You have little to wear,” Erik began meaningfully. “And I do not have enough blankets to keep the both of us warm come this autumn. I’d rather it sooner than later that you receive these,” he explained, handing the bundle to his surprised captive.

Charles carefully took it, flashing the man a distrusting look before carefully unfolding the blanket and lightly running his fingers over the garments tucked inside. He held up the cream shirt, and fondled the wool trousers and breeches loosely folded, still in his lap. He smiled faintly at a plain, dark red vest slipped between the trousers. Erik had already turned and busied himself shutting the trunk and pushing aside old sentiment. He reminded himself of the horror attached to these clothes, the nightmares that surely countered the laughter folded into the seams.

“Are these yours?” Charles asked softly, peeking up at his captor attentively, scrutinizing his features as if he had a right to.

Teeth grinding loudly in his own ears, Erik stepped closer to the boy, earning an uncertain frown as Charles inclined slightly away, a look somewhere between anxious and concerned plastered on his pretty face. The German gave Charles a murderous look, bending suddenly and coming face to face with him in an instant, grabbing the edge of the wall at the foot of Charles’ bed to anchor himself. No longer very confident, Charles dropped his gaze and didn’t dare lean any further away. The captain set a heavy hand at the back of his captive’s neck, and the boy had the gall to bite his lip and shut his eyes, anticipating a much firmer hold.

“Do not. Ask. Questions,” Erik lowed somberly. “Take what you are given. You don’t need history with your gifts,” he continued almost mockingly, as if Charles’ question was entirely foolish to begin with.

“Yes sir,” the Englishman murmured carefully, very still as the captain slowly drew away again to stand over him. Opening his eyes, Charles folded his new clothes and wrapped the blanket around them once more. Awkwardly, he slid further down on his bed in order to have room to get to his feet; Erik stood rigidly where he was, watching him with narrowed eyes. Kneeling, he pulled his case from the small space beneath his bed and set the bundle inside.

Erik was about to tell him to get up when a muffled voice from on deck caught their attention. The German was at the door of his cabin in seconds, swift to get up the stairs, leaving a confused captive behind.

The crew was wild, darting across the deck and to the starboard side. Erik was leaning over the railing just as they did, scowling at the horizon as someone grabbed his shoulder.

“Erik, it’s not the Spanish,” Emma informed him hastily, excitement and determination etched into her growing grin. “It’s the French navy.”

Erik’s grin was quick to match hers. “Too easy.”

“French off the starboard side!” Cassidy called from the crow’s nest before beginning a rapid descent back to the main deck. A rallying cry from Logan broke through the garbled chatter of the rest of the crew, and Erik ran to the bough, drawing his sword and raising it high.

“ _Was ist unser Name?_ ” he called, a mad rush of thunder already in his veins.

“ _Freiheit!_ ” the crew shouted in unison, drawing their various weapons to raise them as their captain did.

“And what does a free man take?”

“Power!” replied the pirates below.

“Tonight we strip the French of a naval ship! These waters harbor only one power! Which power?”

“ _Freiheit!_ ”

“Prepare for a fight, my free men!”

“And women!” Emma added helpfully, grinning as she joined her captain at his side. Erik laughed raucously and cried out as a barbaric warrior might.

The echo of the crew was strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Was ist unser Name?" - What is our name?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has to hide while the crew raids the French vessel, but something goes very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to azryal for being my beta! I thought I'd had this ready sooner, but I forgot to send it off to her until the other night. WELP. Here it is. Translations at the end, and I apologize for the undoubtedly botched French. I had to rely on Google Translator, but I will happily take any corrections necessary. Enjoy!

Charles watched in awe the commotion of the crew, leaning precariously over one edge of the ship. He watched as the captain practically leapt to the bow, raising his voice to call his crew to arms, elegant sword high and effectively threatening in the light of the setting sun.

Peeking through the doorway a bit more, he curled his fingers around the edge and allowed himself a step higher, closer to the deck. The crew responded to the captain so enthusiastically that Charles thought perhaps Lehnsherr would have made a good politician, if not a revolutionary, in another life. He was mesmerized by the flood of energy from the pirates, all raring to run someone through, and didn’t realize he was being approached until the crowd was dispersing at full speed to gather necessities for the upcoming attack; the captain was almost in front of him before he noticed, and Charles was gasping and pulling back from the door like a child caught sneaking a peek at activities he was much too young to see.

“What are you doing?” Lehnsherr demanded as he pushed the cabin door open abruptly, causing Charles to stumble backward down the steps, shuddering at the heat in the man’s eyes. He was thrilled, ready for a fight, it seemed, and Charles decided it would be best not to offer him one too soon.

“I. I was just—it’s the French?” he stammered, backing into the cabin and soon onto his bed when the captain showed no signs of slowing his advance.

“You’ll need to be out of the way,” the German insisted gruffly, looming over his bed as the boy pushed himself into the wall. “You can’t be found. The French might be weak in the sight of defeat, but they will take you captive if they don’t kill you.” He paused, smirking a bit. “And they would never return you home. You’re a pirate now, Charles.”

“I am  _not_  a pirate,” Charles hissed, ignoring the rest of his insistence. But he chewed his lip nervously, glancing past the captain to the door. “I—I can help. I can fight,” he said carefully.

“No,” Lehnsherr ground out, giving him a dark look, smirk gone. “You’ll stay here. Hide.”

 _You hide, Charlie. You hide_.

“I refuse to be useless, what if you’re overwhelmed?” he demanded stubbornly, inching toward him with a steady build of confidence. The captain did not budge.

“This crew has handled worse than the French navy,” Lehnsherr said drily, unimpressed. “Hide.”

“No!”

“Charles—,” the German began through clenched teeth, earning a wince from the boy as he grabbed the back of his neck, harsher than he had previously. “What did I tell you about orders?” he lowed, dragging him upward.

Charles faltered, grimacing. “I—please,” he breathed, flashes of Sean hitting the deck with blood on his shirts, of Alex falling overboard with a broken arm, of Logan meeting the wrong end of a French sword, briefly coloring his vision with vivid scarlet. “Let me help, any way that I can,  _please_ ,” he asked weakly.

“You’re no use to me dead,” Lehnsherr reminded him gravely. “You’re no use as a bloodied corpse.”

Charles shuddered again, shutting his eyes at the thought, a hand over the one holding him up. “I—it’s only—”

“That’s an order _, verstehest du?_ ” the captain hissed, close enough that Charles could feel his breath on his face. “Hide. Protect yourself. Come out only when you hear my voice, Charles,” he commanded firmly, grip loosening slightly. It startled Charles enough that he dared to open his eyes again, just in time to see something shift in Lehnsherr’s.

“You keep calling me that,” Charles murmured softly, looking past him to the cabin door again, desperate to be of use.

The captain stared mutely at him.

“You keep calling me Charles, but you almost never do.” He squirmed, daring to set a hand on the older man’s chest and push lightly, insistent.

Lehnsherr tossed him back, turning on his heel. “Hide,” he snapped, giving him a grave look before slamming the cabin door shut.

Panic and determination pulsed in his mind. Charles scrambled off of the bed, scalp tingling with the stinging echo of Lehnsherr’s hold. He rushed to the cabinet, hoping to find weapons or at least something blunt he could use to hit someone, worse come to worst; he cried out as he as welcomed by a rack of swords and knives, barely catching the corners of it before the sharp ends caught him.

 _If I’d known they were so readily available,_  he thought grumpily to himself, taking the rack out as carefully as he could and setting it aside to make room for himself. Shutting the door definitively, he tried to listen in on the commotion outside, up on deck. He could hear Logan especially, and someone else with a rough, deep voice, rejoicing at the apparent nearing of the naval ship. He held his breath as an eerie quiet replaced the cries, and frowned in disbelief. Frozen in place, he waited a few seconds more before deciding he should at least peek, and was immediately met with another roar, the ship rocking just slightly as the naval ship became close enough to board.

He winced and stepped momentarily out of the cabinet to grab a dagger from the rack after all, holding it tightly in one hand as he spun back into his hiding place and clutched it to his waist, nervous. He could hear the ship creak and groan as the crew transferred to the French vessel, and he breathed a sigh of relief.  _No fighting onboard,_  he thought, relaxing slightly and leaning back.

He’d just closed his eyes when the shouts and rumble of feet sounded suddenly nearby. Stiff, the would-be lawyer held the dagger slightly higher and stared at the crack of light from the cupboard door, searching for signs of movement within the cabin. It seemed the pirates and the French found it more fitting to fight in the open air than to spill into the lower decks of the ship.

Charles jumped when the door of the cabin burst open.

The smattering of French he’d learned proved useless in a panic and when the French he was hearing was urgent and military. He guessed at least two men had entered the cabin, and held a hand over his mouth to quiet the sound of his breathing, as if it could be heard over the sound of muskets and shouting only separated by a plank of wood. The men spoke rapidly, gesturing about the cabin and very clearly searching for something.

Charles’ heart raced dangerously in his chest when one of the Frenchmen approached the cabinet, and he pressed himself more firmly back. He could see them now, slivers of a stocky blonde and a capped man with a moustache visible through the now nerve-wracking crack in the door, where the wood did not fully meet. He watched as the blonde rifled through the maps on the shelves directly next to his cupboard, the moustached Frenchman wandering the cabin with his hand on the hilt of his sword. The two must have entered the cabin unnoticed if their weapons weren’t drawn.

 _Fantastic,_  he thought critically as he realized none of  _die_   _Freiheit’s_  crew must have seen them enter.

The blonde man pulled away with a scroll in his hand, too small to be one of Lehnsherr’s maps, and Charles’ brow furrows. Were they looking for something specific? Had they found it? A sinking sensation made Charles’ stomach churn.

Running into this ship hadn’t been coincidence, then.

“ _Hé, vous!_ ” the moustached man shouted urgently, and Charles jolted again, eyes widening. The Frenchman was looking directly at him, through the horrid sliver in the doorway.

Charles didn’t have time to cry out as the cabinet was wrenched open and a hand found purchase on the front of his shirts; he didn’t seem to remember that he was actually armed, and fell haphazardly to the floor as he was yanked forward. The dagger was kicked out of his reach before he could remember to use it, and the blonde Frenchman was all too happy to step on his hand to keep him in place. The sudden pain was what ripped a cry from his lips.

“ _Un garçon de cabine? Poltron peu!_ ” the man with the cap said sharply, sounding amused. He pushed Charles’ face to the floor with his boot, regarding him sideways. “ _Cacher dans les placards?_ ”

“ _Mer… merci_ ,” Charles breathed raggedly, grimacing and trying not to struggle. “ _Merci, je suis Charles Xavier. Je—je suis_ … not a  _bloody_  pirate,” he went on weakly, wincing as the blonde ground his hand to the floorboards mercilessly.

“ _Votre français est terrible_ ,” the blonde man commented with a sneer, watching Charles’ free hand scrape at the floor uselessly. “Up!”

Disbelieving of both the English and his freedom, Charles hesitated when both men removed their boots, but he dragged his hand to his chest, cradling it close with a shuddering whimper and carefully pushing himself up and onto his knees at the very least. Covering his surely broken hand with the other, he looked uncertainly up at them, eyes flickering between each. “I won’t—I won’t fight you,” he informed them slowly, wondering if they really did speak English. “There’s no need to hurt me anymore.”

“Quiet, boy,” the moustached man snarled, accent thick. He grabbed the back of Charles’ collar and hauled him upright. Charles did his best to comply quickly, barely stumbling as he snapped his mouth shut. “Where is ze ozzer map?” the man demanded, turning Charles to face him.

Confused and skeptical, the young man glanced to the shelves stocked full of maps behind the Frenchman. “I… I’m not sure I understand. Those are all m—,” he began carefully, but cut himself off with a cough as he was hit abruptly in the gut. “Please,” he wheezed, wrapping his uninjured hand around his waist protectively.

“Ze ozzer map!” the blonde Frenchman demanded loudly. “Where is it? Your fucking captain should ‘ave anozzer map!”

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charles insisted nervously, shutting his eyes as the stocky man seized his jaw and forced him to look at him. “Please,” Charles begged weakly. “I don’t know.” He yelped as a sharp smack met his cheek before his face was grabbed again. “I  _don’t_.”

“ _Enfoncer moutard anglais_ ,” the capped man scoffed, pushing Charles face-first to the shelves. “Show us ze map!” he raged, grabbing the back of the boy’s head and pushing it to a shelf.

“I don’t know!” Charles shouted, anger slipping into his anxiety as he tried to push away from the maps with his one good hand, favoring his left. “Please, let me go!” He wanted to cry when he felt a sword press against his back, prodding at him.  _I’m going to die right here. I’m going to be killed by a mad_ Frenchman _, god help me_.

“Ze map!” the blonde yelled in return. “Or I will kill you!”

Shaking, Charles carefully lifted his good hand, looking uncertainly over the shelves, shifting a few maps as if he were searching for something specific. He wasn’t sure how long such a charade would last. Apparently, a few seconds was too long, and he was pulled abruptly back by a fistful of hair, a wince escaping him as he shut his eyes.

“ _Vous me faites perdre mon temps, vous petit morceau de merde!_ ” one of them said as a blade is set against Charles’ throat. He didn’t dare to even swallow, biting back a pathetic whine as he tugged helplessly at the man’s hand. “ _Je devrais te tuer maintenant!_ ”

A warrior cry suddenly drew the Frenchmen’s attention from both their quest and Charles, the sound only recently familiar to the young man. He shut his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth in preparation either for a quick death or a world of pain as the Frenchmen cried out angrily in return. Surprised to find he was thrown against the shelves instead of cut up on the floor, Charles held the casing tightly and breathed heavily, pressing himself against it and carefully watching the man who’d interrupted swing a deep cut into the blonde man’s chest, knocking him sideways.

 _“Ich werde dich töten!”_  Captain Lehnsherr roared, throwing the remaining intruder to the floor and kicking him roughly in the gut before rolling him onto his back and bringing his sword up. Charles couldn’t look as the pirate brought his sword down.

The remaining Frenchman shouted, indignant and furious, and Charles couldn’t help the petrified wince he emitted as he was grabbed from behind again, thick arms around his waist and neck. He clawed viciously at the man’s arm, frustrated with his thick wool uniform. “Get off!” he demanded, writhing as much as he could manage in such a suffocating grasp.

“ _Faire marche arrière, ou le garçon meurt!_ ” the Frenchman said hastily, stepping back at Lehnsherr’s approach. The captain looked truly menacing, a tall, thin silhouette in the broken lamp’s light, the night sucking his features from his shadowed face. “ _Faire marche arrière!_ ”

The young man was certain the Frenchman would kill him where they stood, but couldn’t take his eyes off of the captain’s advancing form, fearless and enraged. For a moment, Charles thought that it was impossible for someone to be so angry, so dangerous without a hand raised or a belt to snap, but as Lehnsherr twisted his sword in a full circle on his hand, Charles was quick to think otherwise. Breath in his throat, Charles closed his eyes as the sword rose and arched, the Frenchman crying out in shock as the blade connected with some vital part of him.

The Englishman fell hard onto his side, his bad hand, and cried out himself, clutching it to his chest again and trying to get a handle on his breathing. He dared not move, draw any more attention to himself, in case the captain’s rage was still hungry for blood. In a lapse of judgment, Charles opened his eyes, and saw more than any illustrations in his medical texts could have offered.

He screamed for the blonde man’s innards, ripped unceremoniously from his belly, strewn over his chest in some nightmarish display of victory. The dead stare that met him caused him to scramble upright, pushing himself into the shelves, feet slipping on the new blood spilled before him. Never had he seen such a brutal death, such violence marked by pure rage. He turned his face away, terror seizing his throat and heart, making it that much more difficult to breathe. If this is what one of the intruders looked like, what happened to the man that had held him last?

The cabin itself was silent, the rock of the ship steady, as if a small massacre hadn’t happened in one of its cabins. Charles certainly felt affected, unable to see straight or swallow without difficulty. He knew if he wasn’t careful, he’d knock himself right out, right under the nose of the pirate that had issued his renewed nausea—

Oh.

Lehnsherr.

Charles was very suddenly aware of the captain’s nearing presence, his crouch, an arm reaching for him. Panicked, he leaned away, pushing himself further down he row of shelves and keeping his face from the German’s sight. Every inch of him was shaking. He’d nearly been killed over some map, and was now waiting for someone — even more dangerous than the men that had threatened him — to give him some kind of order, no doubt. To tell him to be a man and get out of the way, perhaps demand information about what the intruders wanted. If he was lucky, and he sincerely hoped he would be, he might be let off with a smack and no breakfast. He could only hope he’d be treated like a child when he was feeling particularly small and vulnerable. Charles expected to be reprimanded, since he’d be less useful with an injured hand, since it must seem as if he’d obeyed orders.

He did not expect the captain to take his injured hand from him, certainly not with the amount of gentleness he was currently expressing. Charles still trembled, unable to summon the strength to pull away, even as nervous as he was. Shutting his eyes again, he gritted his teeth in preparation for some kind of torture. Lehnsherr had revealed that he’d been to the Orient, and even picked up a few tricks, so who was to say he didn’t pick up any of their torture methods? He’d read before that the Chinese especially were notorious for their torture. He expected the captain to pull back one of his mangled fingers and demand to know why he had the gall to come out of hiding, an assumption he’d surely make. Wouldn’t he?

When the additional pain did not come, Lehnsherr only carefully turning his wrist about as he inspected his hand, Charles managed to calm himself down enough to breathe without making some pathetic choking sound. Turning his head just slightly, he watched the pirate manipulate his hand without causing any pain. Wary of what he’d do next, the young man swallowed hard and gripped his leg tightly. “I—I’m sorry,” he offered in a wet voice. Now would, of course, be the time he would realize he had been crying. “Oh god, I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me,” he went on weakly, taking a shaky breath.

Lehnsherr’s eyes were hard, disbelieving, as he looked to Charles, a scowl on his lips. “What are you talking about, boy?” he demanded gruffly, setting his larger, cool hand over Charles’, ignoring his anxious flinch.

“I. The French… The cupboard,” he supplied helplessly, confused and still scared. “They’re dead. My god, you  _killed_  them.”

“I did,” the captain agreed simply. “Would you rather I had let them kill you first?” he asked skeptically, stern as he raised an eyebrow.

“N-no,” he answered truthfully, face screwing up in desperate puzzlement. “But I, I thought—you can’t interrogate them now. How are you to know what they wanted? Did you have to kill them?”

“I suspect you know what they wanted,” Lehnsherr pointed out, gaze unwavering. “Are you giving me reasons I should have let you die?” he added, smirking faintly.

“No,” Charles replied quickly, wincing at the thought. He really didn’t want to imagine himself as mutilated as the two men just inches away. “No,” he repeated in a murmur.

“What happened here?” Lehsnherr said suddenly, indicating Charles’ hand between his. “You’ve broken it. How did that happen?”

Charles dreaded the sight of it. He knew it must be gnarled and ruined. He briefly entertained the possibility of never being able to use it again. The thought made him even sicker. “He—the blonde—he. He stepped on it. Crushed it,” he offered in a small voice, horrified at the reality of it. He wondered if the suddenly dulled pain was only adrenalin, the endorphin he’d read about that muted nerves and gave one a few minutes of impossible physicality. He didn’t feel particularly strong.

Grunting in acknowledgement, the captain rose, slowly releasing Charles’ hand so that he might cradle it close again. “Get up. You’re going to see McCoy. I can’t do much until he’s treated you.”

Wincing, Charles carefully maneuvered to his feet, stumbling slightly, only to be caught at the elbow before he could tumble to the floor again. “McCoy?” he asked carefully.

“The doctor,” the captain clarified. “If anyone can salvage your hand, it’s him.”

 _Salvage? No, no, I don’t want an amputation,_  Charles thought nervously. “Are you sure?”

Pausing, the captain turned back to look at him, gaze distinctly unimpressed. This earned a shamed blush from the smaller male, and Charles effectively kept his mouth shut as Lehnsherr sat him on his bed—the captain’s bed, only so much more comfortable than his own. “Don’t ask foolish questions,” he reminded the boy absently, and went to the cabin door before Charles could think of something to say. “Wait here,” the German added, looking back at him. “And for god’s sake, don’t hold it so tightly.”

Charles nodded, loosening his grip on his hand, still refusing to look at it. He watched as the captain disappeared above deck, and had to forcibly look to the ceiling to keep his eyes from wandering to mangled corpses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un garçon de cabine? Poltron peu! [A cabin boy? Little coward!]  
> Cacher dans les placards? [Hiding in cupboards?]  
> Votre français est terrible, [Your French is terrible,]  
> Enfoncer moutard anglais, [Fucking English brat,]  
> Vous me faites perdre mon temps, vous petit morceau de merde! [You are wasting my time, you little shit!]  
> Je devrais te tuer maintenant! [I should kill you now!]  
> Ich werde dich töten! [I’ll kill you!]  
> Faire marche arrière, ou le garçon meurt! [Back away, or the boy dies!]


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit with the ship's physician is necessary, and Charles continues to learn something new about his captain every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely beta, [azryal!](http://azryal00.tumblr.com/)  
> Oh, and [fanart](http://allaspiattellata.tumblr.com/post/29475718623/the-illustration-for-o-captain-my) by the lovely [allaspiattellata](http://allaspiattellata.tumblr.com/)!

“Captain, I know the smell of blood, and you promised there would be no more bodies on your ship,” came an anxious voice from the cabin door, just behind the thick wood.

“McCoy, this is no time for your morals, there’s an injured man in need of your expertise,” Lehnsherr countered seriously, and the cabin door opened suddenly, making Charles jolt in his seat.

A tall young man, very possibly taller than the captain himself, came down the short steps into the cabin, looking about wearily and pulling his spectacles from his nose at the sight of the Frenchman sprawled on the floor. He made a point of looking away, and approached Charles with a heavy sigh.

“You’re a doctor?” Charles asked carefully, disbelieving that a man no older than himself would have had the necessary schooling and training. But he offers his hand when the boy kneels, and doesn’t question his gentle handling.

“Since I was fourteen,” McCoy offers after a nerve-wracking minute of silently examining Charles’ injured hand. The shorter male frowns, awed and slightly cowed. He liked to think of himself as the brightest mind in almost any room—however forcibly humble he tended to be—but a young man that could be no more than twenty that had been a physician for six years. He felt suddenly quite a bit smaller than he typically felt. If only he had studied more sciences. Though perhaps a hope still lingered that he had a broader knowledge of more subjects than this man.

McCoy finally met his eyes, and pushed his spectacles back onto his face, frowning. “What happened to earn you this damage?” he asked, sounding both impressed and disapproving.

Hesitating, Charles dared a glance at the corpses on the floor. This seemed answer enough for the doctor, and Charles wondered if Lehnsherr hadn’t disclosed such information for a reason.

“I need you to return with me to my cabin, Charles,” McCoy said firmly, which might have taken a lot of effort. The would-be lawyer realized there was something much softer about the doctor than was in the other crewmembers. He nodded and got to his feet, trying to bite back a swell of nausea at the movement, still uncomfortable due to the recent chain of events. Without prompt, McCoy took Charles’ good arm and ducked, wrapping it over his shoulders and lifting him just slightly; from the corner of Charles’ eye, the captain scowled, but offered no comment, standing motionless near the door.

On deck, the crew was frantic, darting across the planks and shouting at each other. Some wore triumph, while others nursed slighter injuries than Charles’ own. None of them seemed to pay heed as they crossed to another part of the ship, using the same door that led to the kitchen only to turn the corner sharply once below deck again.

McCoy eased Charles onto a low hammock, and Charles held his hand with a wince. He still didn’t dare look at it properly, knowing the sight coupled with the pain would make him sick. The captain is standing on the opposite side of the cabin, scowl still in place. Charles hadn’t remembered his entrance, but he supposed it only made sense that he’d follow.

“I’m going to have to break at least one of your fingers again,” the young man said apologetically, looking genuinely upset about it, pulling cotton bandaging and wrapped splints from a drawer set in the wall. “It’s going to hurt, I imagine, just as much as you’re in pain now,” he went on, watching Charles from the corner of his eye as he pulled a leather strap from another drawer.

The sight of the leather made his gut clench. He instinctively moved away at its appearance, never once taking his eyes from it. “I—I’d rather not—any more, thank you,” he said incoherently, and he hoped it was only the rush in his veins that made the fear in his voice climb. He yelped when someone took his jaw and roughly turned his face away.

Lehnsherr did not seem pleased.

“You need this,” he lowed, expression severe. “You will not heal correctly if you don’t accept McCoy’s help.”

Breathing raggedly, Charles felt his initial panic sink, and he looked at the leather strap and McCoy’s distinctly confused expression. The captain stared him down for what might have been an hour, when a mere minute has passed. Charles nodded weakly, and Lehnsherr released his face, brow furrowed.

McCoy cautiously held out the leather strap. “You’re going to want to bite on this,” he explained, and Charles immediately felt like a fool for his alarm.

“Oh,” he murmured, face flushing hotly. The man was a physician, for god’s sake, why had he been so afraid? It wasn’t surgery he was about to undergo, and he clearly had no intention of beating him with the strap. No, Charles was far away from the man that preferred such a use for his leather.

Taking the strap with his uninjured hand, Charles placed it between his teeth uncertainly, and lets the doctor take the other hand in his own. But Lehnsherr stepped close again, and McCoy paused to look up at him.

“Whiskey?” the captain grunted, and the doctor looked embarrassed.

“Of course.” Reaching for a crate under the hammock, he pulled a bottle up and held it out to Charles. “This will help with the pain, quite a bit more than a mere gag.”

Taking it uncertainly, Charles nodded and set the strap down, licking his lips and pulling the cork out with his teeth. He hesitated only a moment before he took a long drink, coughing violently a moment later, eyes flooding again with a new pain. “Dear— _lord_ ,” he wheezed, making a face. “That—that’s _awful_.”

Lehnsherr smirked faintly, but insistently put the bottle back to Charles’ lips. “More.”

Wincing, Charles did indeed dare to down another mouthful or two, before he could barely taste anything but a foul, burning bitterness.

He screamed when his middle finger was snapped the opposite direction it had been crushed, and the captain pushed the leather strap back into his mouth, taking the bottle before Charles accidently broke the neck in his good hand.

-

Charles came to in the same hammock, but for a moment, he did not remember where he was. For some horrible reason—a trick of his mind, or perhaps by fate—he did not, in fact, wake up at home in his bed. It was not some foul dream he could attribute to too many novels and not enough fresh air. It was not a nightmare he could brush away in shame and confusion by stepping out of his room and going to the study to sit down with another troublemaking book. He was still on a pirate ship, and he was still cradling a severely injured hand to his chest.

Groaning, he shook his head and tried to sit up when he though he might be ready enough, head aching even with his slower movements. McCoy was there in an instant, and helped ease him upright.

“How do you feel?” the young doctor asked carefully.

“As if I’ve been dragged behind a cart,” he muttered in reply, scowling and squeezing his eyes shut. “My hand… still hurts badly.”

McCoy nodded almost guiltily. “I’m afraid I don’t have all of my best remedies this voyage. I’ve given you the best that I do have, however. And the whiskey…” He smiled sheepishly. “You’re free to have another drink. Better to be numb and a bit drunk than suffering sober, according to Logan.”

Charles did manage a small smile at that. “Was I sleeping very long?”

“Not considerably,” McCoy answered carefully. “Just through the night.”

This was not as reassuring as the doctor seemed to think it would be. Charles’ eyes widen, and he looks to the cabin door. “The captain?”

“Will be glad to hear that you’re alright. He wouldn’t leave until I told him he needed rest. That took an awful lot of courage, mind you,” he explained, and fidgeted uncertainly for a long moment.

The smaller male smiled a little for him, and nodded. “Thank you,” he said gratefully. “For all of your help. I’m glad amputation was unnecessary.”

“I generally refuse to amputate unless I’ve no other choice or the patient has explicitly asked.” Charles gave him a horrified look. “That’s very unusual, I confess.”

Charles had almost forgotten what it felt like to laugh.

-

“Lookin’ better, boy,” Logan commented as the young man stepped into the kitchen. He was relieved to find it abandoned, and assumed the crew was already busy manning the deck.  He set a stool down expectantly, and Charles slowly seated himself, looking at his wrapped hand.

“Better? I’ve—I’ve got my hand in a splint. I’m not allowed to use it for ages!” he protested disbelievingly.

“I meant in comparison to the way you looked when I saw you five hours ago,” Logan amended, frowning for a long moment and staring at the boy’s hand and wrist. “Hank said you broke into a fever.”

“Hank?”

“Doctor McCoy. Henry McCoy.”

“Ah.” _Perhaps after the kings,_ he wondered. But he paused. “…How many saw me in such a state?”

“Don’t panic. Just the three of us.” McCoy, Lehnsherr, and Logan. This did indeed ease Charles’ mind. He would have been terribly ashamed if the crew had been privy to his extremely vulnerable condition. While no one had yet tried to bring him harm, he remained wary of certain eyes aboard _die Freiheit_.

“I wasn’t,” Charles insisted, letting himself smile a little. “Have you seen the captain?”

The burly cook rolled his shoulders, watching Charles sideways, as if suspicious. “He’s on deck, doing his duties as captain. You seem anxious.”

“I know not what use I am, with an injury such as this,” Charles admitted, picking at the hem of his vest. “What if I’m of no use at all?”

“You think he’ll toss you overboard,” Logan guessed, smirking knowingly. Charles didn’t appreciate the mockery.

“I don’t see why that would be so amusing,” he muttered, mindlessly holding his wrist, a subconscious gesture to protect it, however useless it could prove to be.

“You’re the one I’m smirking at, Charles. Why would he go to the trouble of wasting medical materials on you, if he didn’t plan to keep you around?”

The young man’s face twisted into an expression of confused disbelief, but Logan had a point. He fidgeted in his seat and watched the cook slice up a large loaf of bread without more than a single glance down. They remained in thoughtful silence while Logan dropped slices into a woven basket.

“He wants you in his cabin tonight,” Logan said suddenly, straightening from where he’d bent to pick up a wooden bowl. “Said he still expected you for supper and slumber.”

“He said that?”

“Those exact words.”

Despite the unusual phrasing, Charles felt an odd sense of relief. The captain was not angry enough to keep him out of his quarters, even after all that had happened.  This had to be a sign of good things to come, if not some sort of mercy. Right? Charles wasn’t in trouble.

A stirring of something unfamiliar called him from his thoughts, and his concerned frown curved into a small smile. He wanted to be in Lehnsherr’s good graces. After all, he had to be grateful that he hadn’t been discarded or flogged for his errors the previous night. While he still didn’t know exactly what had occurred with the Frenchmen in the cabin—something about maps, if he recalled correctly—he felt that it was vital, and that he’d been truly lucky to survive, lucky that the captain had returned when he did.

“Speak of the devil,” Logan said under his breath, and Charles’ head snapped up as heavy footsteps tread down into the kitchen.

“Logan,” Lehnsherr greeted simply, paying Charles no mind. It stung slightly, and Charles could not think of why. He was used to being addressed last in the presence of others, if he was to be addressed at all. The young man looked back to his hand as if chastised.

“Captain.”

“Are you alright?”

It took longer than it should have, but Charles finally realized he was being spoken to. He hoped he did not flush. “Yes, captain,” he answered hastily, and attempted not to wince when he thoughtlessly squeezed his palm.

“Are you lying to me?” the German went on, quirking a brow at the boy.

Charles was at a loss for words, unsure of how to proceed. “I—I’m not certain,” he confessed carefully. “I haven’t quite had injury such as this in a very long time.”

“Are you in pain?”

“…It’s minimal, sir.”

“Are you lying to me?” he demanded again, gaze unwavering.

“No…?”

The captain nodded, and turned on his heel. “I expect you in my cabin again this evening. You are free of duty until sunset,” he said curtly, and started up the steps again. But he paused, scowling and leaning down to glare at the would-be lawyer. “Don’t aggravate your injuries, Charles, or I’ll be very cross,” he lowed, turning about again to take his leave.

Eyebrows raised, Charles glanced uneasily to Logan, who was smirking to himself and chopping potatoes. _A man of secrets,_ Charles thought idly.


End file.
